Wonder Woman and Superman in Corporate Leaguers
by NWHS
Summary: (AU Story) In a world of big business and corporate greed, it's all about money and power. But for a group of Corporate Leaguers, it's about justice and revenge . . . and love.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

**Part 1: Gotham City, the Wayne Manor**

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Master Bruce?"

Not bothering to look away from the bright computer screen, Bruce shook his head. "I'm fine, Alfred, thank you. It's late, why don't you turn in for the night."

"What about Mistress Wayne?"

Bruce did look up then and met the wizened eyes of his aging butler. Alfred Pennyworth had been like a father to him, adding that to his many roles after the unexpected death of Bruce's father. But that loss had been many years ago, a boating accident having claimed the life of Thomas Wayne.

"She's had a long day, Alfred. Mother turned in about an hour ago."

He nodded, brisk and formal. "Very good, sir, and what of Dr. Wayne? I could take a cup of soothing tea to her before I turn in for the night."

Bruce's eyes slid to the clock on the mantle. It was nearly 12:00 a.m. When he'd left his bedroom, his wife was already asleep. Like his mother, she was exhausted, barely able to keep her eyes open when he tried to share the information he'd newly acquired. But there was always tomorrow, he'd told himself before kissing his wife goodnight and descending the stairs. He'd finally found the evidence he'd been searching for, and his wife . . . well, she was his confidant, his sounding board, his partner. He couldn't wait to share the news with her. _And the others._

"She's asleep as well, Alfred. But I think she would very much like that tea with her morning breakfast."

"Of course, Master Bruce. If you will excuse me then, I'll retire for the night."

"Goodnight, Alfred."

"Goodnight, sir."

Alfred bowed out of the room, closing the door to Bruce's study behind him.

Bruce turned back to his laptop and continued to read. The list was finally complete. They could begin. In truth, they already had. _One down, more to go._ He pushed several keys, sending one each to the people he most trusted, the ones who would know exactly what to do with the Intel. Then he backed up the file on a flash drive, removed the portable device from the computer and slipped it into an envelope.

Standing, Bruce walked to the other side of his study and to the portrait of his parents that hung over the fireplace. Thomas and Martha Wayne stared out at him, youthful features forever caught by an artist's masterful strokes.

As much as Bruce missed his father, he knew he could have lost everything on that warm May night. Thomas Wayne had secreted his wife off to a special midnight cruise the day before Mother's Day. They were only to be gone the night, leaving Alfred to take care of the ten-year old Bruce. But an unexpected storm had rolled up the coast of Gotham, taking out power lines, downing trees, and roughening the waters. The _Imperial,_ his father's ship, never had a chance. And when the sun had risen that Mother's Day, Thomas Wayne was lost at sea, Martha Wayne found, hospitalized and in mourning.

Bruce reached up and touched the clasped hands of his parents. The artist had even gotten that right. He examined his own hand, a mirror of his father's. Bruce was no Thomas Wayne, to be sure, but so much of the intelligent, generous man was inside of him. He loved and lived because of him. He cared and protected others because of him. Bruce had known how to be a husband because of him. _And now I'll know how to be a father._

Bruce slid the portrait to the right. It made no sound as it shifted, but once moved, it did reveal a small wall safe. Inputting in the five-digit code, the safe door popped open. Placing the envelope with the flash drive inside and closing the safe, Bruce sighed with relief. Only one thing left to do. Sliding the portrait back into place, Bruce returned to his desk and the laptop.

Bruce encrypted the documents, opened his e-mail and typed the words he hoped would never have to be read. They didn't come easy for him, but it had to be done, had to be said. _Just in case. _Finally, he attached the document to the e-mail and hit SEND. It was done. Well, not quite. There was still the issue of the computer and its contents.

His eyes shifted to the slow burning fire. It was the best option. _Leave nothing behind. Can't afford the risk._ Bruce closed the laptop and stood. He could feel his own fatigue catching up with him. He almost laughed at that. In less than a month, he would become a father. He might as well start getting used to late and sleepless nights. The thought thrilled him, much more than he thought it would.

Bruce walked around the large mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. He'd grown into that as much as Bruce had grown into being CEO of Wayne Enterprises. His life, he knew, would have been so different if both of his parents had been taken from him. But Martha Wayne had lived, had returned from that watery grave that had claimed her husband and lived. "_For you, Bruce. I came back for you, couldn't allow my boy to face the world alone and unloved." _And he had known so much love, Martha giving her son more than his share. _Dad's share._ Now he was to be a parent in his own right. _A father. A Dad._

Bruce smiled, then frowned. _Footsteps? I thought Alfred went to bed. Maybe—_

The door to his study swung open, smashing into the wall from the mere force of it. Quickly, Bruce lunged for his desk, knowing even as he ran that he wouldn't get to the gun he had in his drawer in time. Pain ripped through him, dropping Bruce to his knees.

"I don't think so, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce tried to focus, tried to swallow his fear and pain, tried to ignore the blood soaking through his robe, coating his shoulder in sticky crimson of life and death.

"H-how did you get in here?" Alfred may have been getting up there in age, but the man would never turn in for the night without setting the security alarm.

The shooter laughed. Just laughed. "I think, Mr. Wayne," the man said, pointing the gun at him, "that how I got in here is the least of your worries. So, unless you want me to shoot your other shoulder . . . or maybe a knee this time, I suggest you give me what I want."

With effort born of stubbornness, anger, and a touch of arrogance, Bruce willed his legs to hold his weight and stood. Once upright, Bruce could see his enemy better.

The guy was not quite as tall as Bruce but he was linebacker wide with deadly green eyes that were as flat and serious as his tone of voice. And while Bruce knew he had never met this freak-of-nature before, he knew precisely why he was in his home, what he wanted. _You're not getting a damn thing from me._

Bruce held the man's gaze. He wouldn't be intimidated in his own damn home. Not tonight. Not ever.

"You think you're tough, Richie Rich?" The man laughed again, crueler this time. "You think you can challenge the wolf and not get bitten, clawed to pieces?" The shooter let loose another emotionless laugh, harsh and thick with icy tendrils that sent shockwaves of fury down Bruce's spine.

The man stepped closer. The scar that ran from left eye to mid-cheek, neither the rancid smell of his breath, nor the barrel of the gun pointing at him could scare Bruce Wayne. But the man's words of, "Let's just see how tough you are when my partner brings that sweet, preggo wife of yours down here. Let's just see how long it takes for you to break then."

"_Of course I'll marry you, Bruce."_

"I'm going to enjoy this, Ritchie Rich."

"_Yes, I said I'm pregnant. We're going to become parents. Oh, god, are you going to pass out?"_

"You should have left well enough alone, should have minded your own damn business."

"_We're going to have a girl. A daughter, Bruce, I can't believe I'm going to be a mother in three months."_

Bruce didn't hear what else the intruder had said to him_. _No, the only thing he could hear was his future slipping away from him. There was someone else in his home, someone intent on finding and hurting his pregnant wife. He couldn't let that happen, wouldn't let that happen.

And Bruce . . . well, he'd always been a realist. He was never one to mince words or play games. He knew the score, knew this could only end in two ways. He abhorred each ending, both bleak and bloody. But if there was a chance, even just one chance . . .

Bruce slammed his head into the man's face, hearing the bones of the intruder's nose break with a loud, rewarding _crack_. Then, with all his might, he punched the man with his uninjured arm, sending the bastard to the hardwood floor. Once down, Bruce stomped the hand that still held the gun. Bare feet attacked repeatedly, kicking and stomping, finding flesh and muscle and whatever in the hell he could damage.

Gun no longer in the intruder's hand or sight, Bruce bolted from the study, leaving the downed intruder behind. _Must get to her. Must save her. Save our baby._

Winded, pained but fueled by a husband's love, a father's hope, Bruce bounded down the hallway and up the stairs. Their room was at the end of the hall. Running straight out, he headed to the master bedroom, darkness crowding him, fear threatening to slow his progress.

He ran faster, throwing himself through the open door, eyes searching the darkness for her. And there she lay, on her side and in their bed. _Just the way I left her. Thank god. Thank you God._

Bruce stepped farther into the room, his breaths coming in loud, labored gasps. His shoulder burned with the pain of being shot, his arm a dead weight pulling him down. He blinked and forced himself to think. He had to get her out of here, had to get them all out of here. _Have to get help._

He reached the bed and a wave of dreaded awareness washed over him. Too late. He was too damn late. Like the first, the shot was silent, muffled by a silencer. The bullet to his back spun him around, and for a minute, he saw the face of his killer. It was an ordinary face that could get lost in a crowd, neither handsome nor unappealing, nothing to mark him as the soulless killer he was.

Bruce stumbled backward, falling onto the bed and his still sleeping wife. But she shouldn't be sleeping. She should be awake. _Should have heard me. Should have heard something._

With indescribable effort, Bruce used the comforter to pull himself up the bed and next to his wife. Her eyes were still closed, her face as beautiful as ever. But she was so very pale. _And too still. God, why is she so damn still?_

Then the laughter came, soft and mocking, and sadistically close. "You're a fighter; I give you that, Mr. Wayne. They said you wouldn't go down easy, wouldn't be easy prey. That's why I brought my man for the wifey. I thought I could use her to get the info from you. I guess he got a little trigger happy, couldn't wait to play."

Bruce's eyes never left his wife's face. She was barely breathing, and he knew . . . just knew, he was laying in more than his own blood. _Her blood. _He kissed her lips. They were warm and soft and morbidly unmoving.

Far too late, Bruce heard the security alarm begin to sound. Loud and shrill. The emergency lights flickered on and the men crouching over him cursed.

"Fuck, let's get the hell out of here."

"What about them? We haven't got what we came for."

A snort of satisfaction followed. "It doesn't matter. Bruce Wayne won't live to tell the tale or to take the info public. The bosses are in the clear. Besides, I got the asshole's laptop."

"What about the woman?"

"She's bleeding out from that stomach wound. You have to be one sick son of a bitch to shoot a pregnant woman." He laughed. "That's why I like you so much. Don't trust you for shit, but I'd kill with you any day." More laughter.

Sirens wailed.

Feet retreated.

Bruce laid beside his wife, listening to her breathing slow. There was nothing else he could do, nothing he could say to her. The energy to speak the words of love and regret were beyond him. He wanted to touch her one last time, feel the life they'd created under his fingertips.

Blue eyes parted, opening just a crack. But it was enough. Tears fell.

Hers.

His.

Then they closed.

Hers.

His.

Part 2: Metropolis, the Kent Residence

Clark Kent eased out of bed, making sure to not disturb his wife. The last thing he wanted to do was wake her and get into yet another argument. Lois didn't know how to leave well enough alone. She had to be right, had to push her point until something gave. Well, yeah, something was giving and they both knew what.

Not bothering with slippers or robe, Clark ambled from the bedroom and to his office two rooms away. Across from their bedroom was a third smaller room. He didn't even glance at it. Nothing special was in there, nothing at all.

Turning on the desk lamp, Clark booted up his computer, thinking now was as good a time as any to get a couple of chapters written on his new novel. He wouldn't be going back to sleep, might as well be productive.

Clark opened the Word document, cracked his knuckles, and started typing. Three hours later the sun was up and he'd written three decent chapters. Stretching, he rose from the leather swivel chair, only to see Lois rushing into his office, her face pale, eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" He rushed to her when she didn't immediately answer. Clark grabbed her shoulders. "What's wrong, Lois?"

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again, still nothing.

Lois was scaring the hell out of him. He'd never seen her like this. Upset, yes. Pissed off, yes. But . . . well, she looked like the Grim Reaper had come calling.

When she turned away, he followed, back to their bedroom. The television was on, the 6:00 a.m. news broadcast Lois always watched, while preparing for work, on its usual cable station. Lois stood in front of the television, mouth open in horror as she listened to the news reporter. Clark listened too.

"It is with deep sadness that I report that philanthropist and billionaire Bruce Wayne was gunned down in his home last night. His wife and respected United States Ambassador to the United Nations, Dr. Diana Wayne . . ."

By the time the broadcast was over, he couldn't feel the beating of his heart. With each of the reporter's words, a piece of his heart had been hacked away until nothing remained but a gaping hole where young, prideful love had once been.

He faced his wife. "I have to go."

She nodded. For once, Lois Lane-Kent did not argue with her husband. "I know. Go."

He went.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter 1: No Superman

**Chapter 1: No Superman**

**Gotham City**

**Part 1**

Clark Kent didn't remember the last couple of hours. He didn't recall hastily packing a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries, or speeding away from his home and wife without a backward glance, nor the early morning stop and go traffic. No, Clark recalled very little once he'd watched, in stunned disbelief, the news about the home invasion at the Wayne Manor.

Commissioner Gordon's remarks to the press were terse, his red-rimmed eyes shielding none of the man's obvious anger and concern. "It's too early to know exactly what happened. What we do know is that someone bypassed the Wayne's security system and managed to get into the home and attack Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. They've been taken to Gotham General Hospital."

The reporters pelted the commissioner with question after question, inquiring as to the medical status of the Waynes. The commissioner side-stepped each question, his jaw working in a way that told Clark the man knew far more than he was willing to share.

Watching the tall, white haired police commissioner, round glasses over intelligent, shrewd eyes, deflect question after question, reminded Clark of his days as a reporter. Then, as now, he could scent the story behind the story. And the smell was rancid and vile. This Clark knew, this Clark feared.

Commissioner Gordon had confirmed that the Waynes had been shot. What he had refused to confirm was whether the injuries had been fatal. And when directly asked by a bold, young reporter who'd brazenly pushed her way to the front of the crowd, the commissioner had glared down at the woman, the frost coming from him melting the woman back into the ravenous den of reporters. Then he'd ended the press conference, shoulders squared, face taut, eyes morose.

And now Clark stood frozen at the entrance to Gotham General Hospital. Memories of love and pain and guilt had driven him to this place of brick and mortar . . . and broken pieces of a lost dream. Swallowing his nerves and ignoring the uncontrollable thumping of his heart, Clark walked into the hospital and to the information desk.

A rotund white man with a receding hairline and bushy eyebrows smiled a wide, warm morning greeting. "What can I do for you, sir?" The man asked in a drawl at least four states south of New York.

"I'm looking for the Waynes. They were brought in a few hours ago."

The affable desk clerk narrowed his eyes. All the southern hospitality Clark just experienced suddenly vanishing.

"And who might you be?"

Clark didn't have time for this, but he understood.

"A friend of the family. I'm from out of town, heard about the shooting and wanted to make sure the Waynes were okay. I'm a friend, that's all, a concerned friend."

"Nobody gets up there without going through Special Agent Trevor or Commissioner Gordon." The clerk turned impromptu security guard, glanced down at a sheet of paper on a clipboard, then back at Clark. "Name and identification."

Reaching into his back pocket, Clark pulled out his wallet, found his driver's license, and handed it over to the man.

Scrutinizing the photo id, the man scanned whatever was on the clipboard. "Sorry, sir," the man said, returning his license, "no Clark Kent is on the list."

"But—"

"Not on the list."

"I'm sure if I could just speak to Special Agent Trevor I could get my name added to the list." _I have to get up there, have to learn the truth. Can't return home without seeing them . . . seeing her. _"Could you just call the man, ask him to speak with me?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"But you do have his number, don't you?"

"That's not the point."

Clark glanced around, wondering if there were real security guards or Gotham PD around somewhere. Maybe he could slip in through the emergency room entrance and find the Waynes on his own. But the hospital was huge. He wouldn't know where to begin or what would happen if he got caught. The last thing Lois needed was to have to drive to Gotham to bail her husband out of jail. No, Clark didn't need another mark against him as a husband. He had enough of them already, thank you very much.

"Look," Clark eyed the man's nametag pinned to his crisp navy blue shirt, "Mr. Liverpool, I attended graduate school with Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. We're friends. True, I haven't seen them in several years," he admitted, telling Mr. Liverpool more than was any of the old man's business, "but I still consider them both good friends." He felt like pleading . . . begging even. "I know you just want to protect them. I know this Trevor guy and Gordon must want the same thing. But trust me, I haven't come here to do them harm. I just want to see my friends. Can you help me out, Mr. Liverpool?" He was pleading, unashamed and willing to grovel if it would get him upstairs and . . . _to Diana._ "Please."

The good and the bad of having been a reporter, Clark thought as he met Mr. Liverpool's firm brown eyes, was that good reporters knew how to read people. They knew the truth tellers from the bull shitters, the guilty from the innocent, the cowards from the heroes. They also knew stone walls from papier-mâché. Mr. Liverpool, like Commissioner Gordon, was a stone wall. He'd get no help from that quarter. He didn't need the man's words of, "Sorry, sir, no can do. Not on the list," to confirm his assessment.

Deciding that no one was around to witness Clark throttle an old man for the information he wanted and that maybe a soft-hearted judge would accept his plea of temporary insanity, Clark stepped closer to the desk.

"No need to do something you'll regret, Kent."

Clark spun around at the familiar voice. With two bouquets of lilies in his arms, Clark watched the well-dressed man approach. He hadn't seen the blonde man in years. _Not since Harvard_.

"Ollie?"

"The one and only."

A woman stood next to him, dressed in a black and white dress that fit her curvaceous form. She was classy and sexy the way Clark remembered all Oliver Queen's ladies had been. Like him, she was blonde and supermodel gorgeous. But unlike the women Clark used to see Ollie with, this woman's eyes shone with strength of will and intelligence.

"This is my wife, Dinah _Lance_. Dinah, this is Clark Kent, the famous novelist and biographer."

Clark caught the way Ollie had emphasized his wife's last name, clearly an argument they had yet to resolve. Or, Clark amended, an argument that Mrs. Lance had already won, but Ollie had yet to accept. _No, not like his other women at all._

"Nice to meet you." They shook hands, hers surprisingly strong for a woman that was nearly a foot shorter than him.

"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Kent."

"Clark, call me Clark."

"Alright, nice to meet you, Clark. Please call me Dinah, all of Ollie's friends do."

"So you obviously heard," Ollie said, his friendly voice going low and soft. "I can't believe this shit."

Neither could Clark.

"I assume you guys are here to see them as well?"

"Alfred called. We got here as soon as we could."

Dinah moved away from the men and to Mr. Liverpool and his damn clipboard.

"Unless your name is on that list" —he pointed vaguely behind him— "you won't be allowed up."

"We're on the list."

Of course they were. Oliver Queen, like Clark, had known Bruce and Diana in grad school. They'd all been friends, along with John Stewart and Arthur Curry. Yet Clark was the one who'd left, abandoned everything and everyone. _Even her._

Ollie stepped around Clark and joined his wife at the desk, speaking in low tones to Mr. Liverpool. Three minutes and a cell phone call later, Ollie said to Clark, "We've cleared it with Agent Trevor; you can come up with us."

Relieved and a little pissed, Clark followed the couple down a long hallway and onto an elevator.

"It's good to see you, Clark. I just wish it was under better circumstances."

So did he.

The elevator dinged then opened. Clark waited, allowing Dinah to go first followed by her husband. The hall was quiet and virtually empty. A nurse's station was to his left, a man and a woman, in hospital scrubs, stood behind the desk tone serious, eyes cast down and to the medical folder the woman held in her hands. They said nothing as the trio passed them.

Trailing behind Ollie and Dinah, Clark approached two double doors. The sign above them read: In Loving Memory of Thomas Wayne. Clark fought not to shudder. He knew what had happened to Bruce's father, and now, presumably, his son lay in a bed in a wing named after him. _Perhaps dying. Maybe already dead. Oh God, please let him not be dead. For her. Let him be alive for her. _

The doors swung open, and Clark walked through . . . and halted. They were all there, standing and sitting, lining the walls like silent mourners.

"I see we're the last ones to arrive." Ollie slapped Clark on his back, then whispered, "A lot's happened in seven years, my friend."

"I know. I'm sorry, I—"

"I'm not your priest, Clark, save your confession. I have no moral standing by which to judge you and I don't throw stones."

Clark gestured with his chin. "What about them?"

"They don't matter, and I doubt they care. They're still your friends. If you ever called, visited, or texted you'd know that."

Shame and regret washed over Clark. Ollie was right but today . . . this moment wasn't about Clark and his many mistakes.

As Ollie and Dinah walked away from him to join the group, Clark was left standing by himself, now unsure if he'd made the right decision to come.

He didn't know how long he stood there, unable to move forward, unwilling to retreat.

"Come and join us, Clark."

He hadn't heard or seen her approach, but her soft, sweet voice broke through the emotional storm that had stilled his body.

Clark looked down to see the sincere face of Martha Wayne. The woman was still pretty even with a few age lines bordering her eyes and mouth. She'd always been kind and gracious, a true lady.

Without waiting for a response, Martha claimed his hand and pulled him forward, right smack into the middle of the waiting family and friends. They all stared at him for long minutes, and Clark refused to welt under their scrutiny. He cared about Bruce and Diana, too. They had, after all, all been friends not so long ago. True, their lives had taken different turns and they'd lost touch, but the heart never forgot even when the mind wished it would.

"Glad you came." Arthur, strangely graceful for such a muscular man, pushed from the wall where he'd been leaning. He offered his hand to Clark, and they shook. "Thanks for coming."

"Yeah, thanks for driving in, man." John stood behind Arthur, his tailor-made black suit as dark as everyone's mood. But his smile reached his eyes and seemed genuine.

The others greeted him then, Alfred Pennyworth, John's wife, Mari, and Arthur's wife, Mera.

Then there were only two, seated in the single couch at the end of a row of chairs. They had yet to acknowledge Clark's presence. No, instead, they remained seated, hands holding each other's, eyes closed as if in prayer. Yeah, he'd prayed earlier, during the entire drive from Metropolis to Gotham, in fact.

One of the women finally opened her eyes, and they instantly found him. With a cool, silent perusal, her eyes took in the whole of Clark Kent, from his rumpled button-down shirt to his wrinkled blue jeans, to boots that had seen better days. He hadn't cared what he'd thrown on as long as it was fast. Now, seeing the superior disdain for him reflected in the woman's eyes, Clark wished he'd taken the time to at least iron his clothes. But wasn't that always the way with her, snotty even in the face of tragedy. No, seven years weren't enough to erase how those ocean blue eyes always made him feel. _Like I was unworthy. Less than dirt. Maybe she was right. Maybe._

Relinquishing her hand, the younger woman stood and walked toward Clark. She had grown since he'd last laid eyes on her, but she had her mother's mouth and her older sister's hair, smile, and beauty.

"Hello, Donna."

Surprising him, Donna reached around Clark's waist and hugged him. "Your being here will mean a lot to her. Thank you for coming, Clark. Thank you."

Not feeling he deserved thanks, Clark simply returned the hug, and decided to ignore the daggers Hippolyta, Diana's and Donna's mother, was shooting at him.

Donna released Clark and returned to her mother's side. No one else spoke. They all just stood and sat and waited.

Taking the bandwagon approach, Clark found a spot next to Ollie and sat.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

**Part 2**

"It's been two weeks, Clark, how long do you intend to stay in Gotham?"

Clark moved around the corner and away from prying ears. He didn't think anyone was paying his conversation any mind, but he certainly didn't want to be overheard arguing with his wife. Not that he wanted to argue with Lois, but the woman had a way of sucking him down a yelling, screaming path of dead ends and no outlets.

"I'll be home as soon as I can."

"You told me that a week ago."

Yes, he had, and he'd meant it. Hell, he didn't think he would be in Gotham this long, but things were complicated.

"I know; I'm sorry. I was just trying to wait until she—"

"Wakes up?" Lois swiftly finished for him, then sighed. "You told me what the doctors said, Clark. They don't know when or if she'll wake up."

Worse, the doctors had no medical reason to explain why Diana was in a coma. According to Dr. McNamara, her attending physician, Diana should be awake. Yet . . .

"So you're what . . . just hanging out at the hospital until your old flame decides to return to the living?"

And that was Lois, cruel and insensitive. But she hadn't always been like this. _No, not always. Not until that wretched night when our world stopped and faded to bleak nothingness. _

"I just want to make sure she's okay, that's all, Lois."

She said nothing.

Neither did Clark. He wished he had the words. He wrote for a living, dammit, yet the right words constantly eluded Clark when he most needed them. _Like now. Like then._

"Listen, Lois, I—"

"She's awake," Clark heard someone say. "Diana is awake."

Following the tide of bodies, Clark moved to Diana's room. In the two weeks, he hadn't seen her once. No one prevented him from visiting her, not even Hippolyta or the special agent who hovered about like a lethally trained Rottweiler. No, Clark's fear was all that stood between him and an unconscious Diana bedside.

Now, however, he couldn't keep from squeezing into the room. But he wished he hadn't, for the wail that broke free from her throat tore his heart in two.

"Where's my husband and child?" Diana pleaded in shattered agony.

Clark's phone slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor and breaking.

No, there were simply no right words for a moment like this.

"Diana, please." Hippolyta's calming voice. "Not now, sweetheart. Allow the doctor to examine you, then we'll talk."

"_No! No! No! Tell me, Mother. I have to know. Where are they?"_

Clark saw nothing, the room too full of people. But he didn't want to see, didn't want to have the image of a broken Diana in his mind, haunting him in nightmares and his waking mind.

Yet the hearing was no less painful, no less crippling than the seeing.

"Diana," Hippolyta said, her quivering voice a discordant note of sympathy and grief. "Diana . . . they didn't . . . Bruce and the baby . . ."

Hippolyta's words were crushed under the weight of Diana's scream. Uncontrolled and inconsolable, Diana screamed and screamed and screamed.

No one moved. No one spoke.

And she continued to scream, to unleash a hurt that Clark knew all too well. But he hadn't screamed. He hadn't even cried. He'd simply added the new wound to the cavernous void where he'd stuffed all things devastating and unfixable.

But Diana, dear God Diana, her screams pierced what was left of Clark's heart. A thousand pricks of pain stabbed him in that most ignoble of organs, jolting it with acidic rivers of helplessness that threatened his soul, his sanity.

Nearly lunging for the door, Clark left the room, silent tears staining his cheeks.

"Where the hell are you going?" John Stewart's strong hand locked onto Clark's arm and spun him around. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I have to get out of here. I-I can't deal with that."

"So you're just going to run away? Again."

"Don't start, John. Besides, Diana has all of you; she doesn't need me. She never has."

"You're a fool, Clark."

Clark yanked his arm. "I have nothing to offer her. I never had anything to offer her."

John snorted derisively. "I stand corrected. You're worse than a fool; you're a coward." John walked away from Clark and back into Diana's recovery room.

Recovery? He nearly choked on the bile of irony the thought evoked. The woman had just awoken from a two-week coma only to learn of both her husband's and child's death. No, that room, where Diana's softer but no less intense wails could still be heard, offered no recovery, no healing.

_Only pain. Only a woman's splintered heart, fractured soul._

Head cast down, Clark walked away from Diana Wayne, just as he'd done seven years ago. John was right; he was a coward.

_She's better off without me. I can't help her. I can't even help myself. I'm no superman. _

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Chapter 2: Tomorrow

**Chapter 2: Tomorrow**

**Two Weeks Ago, Wayne Manor**

"This one's from me."

Donna handed Diana a flat rectangular box covered with shiny red wrapping paper. It didn't look like the other gifts she'd opened thus far. There were no cutesy baby bows and ribbons, no pinks, yellow, or whites, no "For baby," tag hanging from it.

Diana frowned, knowing her baby sister far too well to think that what she held in her hand was remotely appropriate for a baby shower.

"Well, are you going to open it or what?"

If it weren't for the way Donna's bright blue eyes sparkled when she was up to something mischievous, Diana may have been fooled by the younger woman's innocent smile and bubbling enthusiasm. But she did know her sister, and the knowing way Donna's eyes kept sliding from Diana and back to the gift in her hand well . . .

Leaning as far as she could in the straight back chair that had been decorated with balloons and streamers for the occasion, Diana faced Donna, who was kneeling in front of her, lowered her voice, and said, "Have you forgotten that Mother and Martha are sitting behind you and that this is my baby shower not my bridal shower."

The girl actually had the decency to blush a moment before she crossed her arms and pouted. "You're no fun, Diana. How can you possibly know what's in the box?"

Diana smiled and leaned back saying, "I have no idea what's in your indiscreet little box, Donna, but I do know my little sister."

Now it was Donna who smiled, all white teeth and youthful beauty. She stood, kissed Diana on the cheek, and whispered in her ear, "It's just a little something to make you feel sexy after having the baby."

Ah, Diana liked that idea.

"Red or black?" she whispered back.

"Both." Donna placed another kiss to her cheek. "And I know you, big sister. Enjoy."

Donna stood, turned away from Diana, and raised her voice so Bruce, who'd been hovering at the edges of the gathering, could hear her, "You're welcome, Bruce."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at Donna, knowing her antics almost as well as Diana did.

Donna laughed . . . so did Diana.

The mothers, well the mothers only shook their heads.

Diana spent the next thirty minutes opening gifts for the baby while all the women in attendance "oohed and aahed."

By the time she finished, Diana was overwhelmed. Not by the gifts themselves, although she appreciated each and every one, but by the love and friendship that surrounded her, filling her house and her heart.

Diana closed her eyes, placed her hand over her protruding belly, and sighed with joy. Soon she would be a mother and the thought no longer frightened her as it did when the doctor had confirmed her suspicions. No, Diana had moved past fear and was now in a state of anticipated bliss.

A hand joined hers, gently stroking. Diana opened her eyes, meeting her mother's teary ones.

"I thought you promised not to cry."

"I promised not to cry in front of everyone." Hippolyta quickly glanced about the room. "No one's paying me the least bit of attention, so I can shed a tear or two without embarrassing us both."

Hippolyta smiled down at Diana, all her love and hope for her eldest child shining through a watery veil. This was the side of Hippolyta, founder and owner of Paradise Island Resorts and Spas, that people rarely saw. To them, she was a cold, calculating, businesswoman with a heart of marble. And Hippolyta was. She was a viper in the boardroom. But when it came to her family, her daughters, there was no more loving of a woman.

"My baby is about to have a baby." She plopped in the chair next to Diana and rolled her eyes upward. "God, I'm too young to be a grandmother."

Diana opened her mouth, ready to remind her mother that becoming a grandmother at fifty-four wasn't exactly the same as becoming one at thirty-four. But she stopped when she saw the way Hippolyta was glaring at her, daring Diana to dispute her claim.

Yeah, well, sometimes Hippolyta could be a viper outside of the boardroom as well. Taking a page out of Bruce Wayne's book for dealing with difficult people, Diana smiled politely and said nothing.

Apparently appeased, Hippolyta smiled and patted Diana's hand. "Donna and I will stay as long as you need us."

"I know, but what about the business?"

"All will be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"Never."

"Then trust me when I say, all will be fine."

A tear slipped from Diana, then another and another. She wiped at them. Anyone listening would've probably wondered why Diana was crying about a business conversation. But Diana and Hippolyta weren't talking about business, and they both knew it.

Three hours later, Diana stood in front of her full-length mirror, examining the changes her pregnancy had wrought on her body. God, her breasts were huge . . . and heavy. And Diana didn't even want to think about having a baby suckle from her sore breasts. Not . . . she admitted with a sensual grin, she ever minded having Bruce suckle from them, sore or otherwise.

Speaking of Bruce, what was taking him so long to shower? Diana was in one of her moods, and it had taken all of her composure not to do something about it earlier, when the house was full of well-wishers.

But everyone had gone home or to bed. Well, not Donna, of course, she'd borrowed Diana's car in search of Gotham's college students club scene. She'd dragged Bruce's new assistant, Victor Stone, a bright, talented, and fresh out of MIT graduate, with her. He would make sure she got home safely. Not because he feared losing his job at Wayne Industries if he didn't, but because Victor Stone was just that kind of young man, the type any girl would be proud to take home to mom and dad.

Strong arms wrapped around her too-large waist. "I thought you would've been asleep by now."

Diana turned in her husband's arms, and then looked between them at the ridiculously large belly separating them. She groaned. "I'm as big as this manor."

Bruce chuckled. "You're beautiful."

"Only if you're into beached whales."

"I'm into you, no matter the size."

"Playboy charms, Mr. Wayne, are the reason why I'm in this state."

Bruce led her to the bed and they sat.

"No, Mrs. Wayne, if I'm not mistaken, you were the one to seduce me."

She had at that. A moment of hurt and pain and desperate need had driven her away from one man and into the arms of another. Not exactly a fairy tale beginning, she knew.

He caressed her cheek, thumb gliding over lips and parting them for his kiss. Soft and gentle. "You're mine."

He'd said the same that first night, but it hadn't been true, not really. Now . . .

"I'm yours."

He kissed her deeper, feeding the silent craving that began when she'd entered her second trimester and had yet to let up. And, yes, she was his, not just in body. _In heart. In soul._

Diana wanted him, wanted Bruce in a lusty, primal way that was urgent and all consuming.

Bruce pulled back, leaving them panting and unfulfilled.

"I want to make love, Bruce."

His eyes dropped to the breasts that were straining against the silk gown Diana wore, and he licked his lips, and then softly swore.

"You've had a long day, Diana, and you're exhausted."

True, but that didn't mean—

"You need your rest, not a horny husband pawing all over you."

Ah, no, that was exactly what she needed but Bruce was laying her down and tucking her in.

He was right, she knew, but that did nothing to abate her hunger for him. "At least hold me until I fall asleep."

"That goes without saying." He snuggled in behind her, pressing himself against her, letting her know that she wasn't the only one aroused and wanting release.

"You'll work tonight?"

"I have a few documents I need to review. I'll tell you all about them tomorrow," he said, his subtle way of letting her know that business talk was also off the table for tonight.

"No sex. No business. You're a cruel man, Bruce Wayne."

The hand that had been idly playing with her belly slid northward, found a breast, and squeezed.

"Just for tonight, Diana, I assure you. Trust me, tomorrow morning, after you're well rested" —he flicked her nipple— "I'm going to have my wicked way with you."

The sound Diana made was half laugh, half moan. The man really did have the most exquisitely wicked fingers.

"Fine. Tomorrow." She settled comfortably, feeling warm and protected with him holding her. Just as she was feeling herself begin to drift off to sleep, she said, "We haven't thought of a name."

Bruce kissed her bare shoulder. "I know. I've given it some thought, but we can talk about that—"

"Tomorrow. Yes, I know."

"Go to sleep, Diana. It can all wait. We have time. Tomorrow is just a few hours away." He kissed her again, leaning up this time to meet her lips when she turned her head to him. "I love you, now stop talking and go to sleep."

Turning her head, and finally admitting she was bone tired, Diana allowed herself to fall asleep, dreaming about Bruce, their baby, and tomorrow.

An unknown amount of time later, Diana heard the door to her bedroom open. Bruce was no longer holding her, although she still slept on her side. All the lights in the room were now out, the moon shining in from the balcony doors the only illumination.

She didn't open her eyes, didn't make a single move as she listened to him close the door and come further into the room. Diana sensed, rather than heard, him walk around the bed and to her side. She could even feel his eyes on her.

But the sensation of his proximity was all wrong. A cold chill swept over her. An unknown flash of fear gripped her. And she knew, with all that she was, Diana knew that it wasn't Bruce who stood above her.

The hand that smelled of long years of smoking should've surprised her when it slapped over her mouth and nose. But it didn't. She'd never known the scent or the feel of evil, but she did now. It smelled of sulfur. A demon stench that hung to the man who'd crawled into the bed with her.

"You're more beautiful close up. Pity, really. Such a pity. The two of us could've had some fun." Something hard and circular pressed into her stomach. "But it seems that Wayne got here first."

Frightened couldn't capture how she felt as this very minute. Diana had never known that such fear was possible, didn't know—in spite of the high crime statistics in Gotham City—that the devil really did pay house calls and he smelled of ash, anger, and lust.

Diana dare not move, dare not open her eyes and let him see the terror she knew was there. Instead, she shut them tighter, and prayed. Prayed that Bruce would stay away, prayed that the man was only here to rob them. But even as she had that thought, Diana knew she was only lying to herself. No simple burglar acted like this. They hid and slithered about, grabbing what they could of value, making sure to not wake the household.

Yet this devil, the man threatening Diana and her child was here for something else entirely. She didn't know what, and she didn't care. She just wanted him to take it and leave her family alone. Again, wishful thinking for a woman too practical to play mind games, even with herself.

"That husband of yours thinks he can play with the big boys; he can't. But he'll learn. Oh, yes, he'll learn."

And before she could register the _pfft _of sound, she felt the sharp stab of pain. Diana wanted to scream out, wanted to roar, wanted to kill the man who smelled of smoke and sin. But she thought of Bruce rushing to her side, crashing through their door in a hurry to see what was the matter . . . and running into the man with the gun. No, Diana wouldn't cry, wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of using her to lure Bruce into his malicious web of horror and madness.

So she stayed still and quiet, as quiet as the blood slowly seeping from her body, from the belly that was supposed to keep her baby safe. And for the first time, Diana's mother had been wrong. Nothing would ever be fine again.

_No more tomorrows._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Chapter 3: Battle Lines

**Chapter 3: Battle Lines**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

**Part 1**

Hippolyta had never thought of herself as a helpless female, not when her husband had left her for a younger, prettier woman, not when her first business venture tanked in its infancy, and not even when she was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back. She'd tackled them as she did everything in her life, with single-minded determination.

She eased from under the heavy embroidered comforter and slid out of bed. Foregoing slippers and a robe, she made her way to her bedroom door and opened it—just a crack. But it was enough. Enough for Hippolyta to see a glow of light from under Diana's door.

She opened the door wider, took one-step into the dimly lit hallway, then stopped. Every atom in her body screamed for her to go to Diana, to offer what comfort she could, to cradle her in her arms as if she was still a babe of two. But Hippolyta didn't give into the yearning. Instead, she stepped back inside her room and closed the door, feeling utterly, pathetically helpless.

Hippolyta paced, as she did most nights after bringing Diana home from the hospital. She was at a loss as to how to help her daughter—or Martha for that matter. Neither wanted to leave the manor, which Hippolyta simply did not understand. Why on earth would they want to stay in this fortress of death and despair? Thankfully, Diana had the good sense not to return to the bedroom she'd shared with Bruce. No, even Martha had recognized how detrimental that would've been to Diana's fragile emotional state, no matter that Alfred had had professional cleaners in there once he'd been given the all clear by the Gotham City Police Department.

But sleeping three doors away from the master bedchamber was small comfort for Diana, Hippolyta knew. Yet she'd refused to leave, giving nonsensical reasons that Hippolyta didn't even bother arguing against. Much of what had come out of Diana's mouth this last month had made little sense to Hippolyta or Donna, not that Diana had spoken much to either of them.

No, she was locked either in her room or in Bruce's library. Yet another place that Diana really did not need to go, but even in grief, Diana was stubborn. A trait they shared.

Hippolyta opened the balcony doors, letting in the crisp May breeze. The grounds were foreboding and intimidating in the blackness of the night, even with the guards patrolling. Hippolyta had no idea how many men with sharp-toothed dogs Special Agent Trevor had stationed around and in the house, but they were quiet, efficient, and deadly. _Too bad, they weren't here to save Bruce._

Hippolyta hadn't shed a tear for a man since the day her husband had abandoned his family and a nine-year old Diana had climbed into her bed, wrapped her tiny arms around her, and said, "We'll be fine without him. Donna and I will never leave you." And they had been fine; she'd made sure of it. Then there was Bruce, and she had cried for him. Cried when the surgeon had come from the operating room, his face revealing the truth long before his words had. She'd caught Martha when she would've fallen to the floor, her only child brutally stripped from her.

And Hippolyta had cried, for her friend, for herself, for her daughter. Now she wanted to return Diana's words of "We'll be fine without him," to her. But the truth was, Hippolyta never lied to her daughters, and she wouldn't begin now. Diana would not be fine; she _was not_ fine, and Hippolyta didn't know what it would take to save what was left of her daughter. And that was a sobering, depressing thought that just pissed her the hell off.

Grabbing a key from her dresser drawer, Hippolyta slung on a white silk robe and exited her bedroom. A moment later, she was standing in front of Diana's bedroom door, key in hand. Out of courtesy but knowing she wouldn't answer, Hippolyta knocked—four times.

Using the key Alfred had given her, Hippolyta let herself into Diana's bedroom. Since the attack, Diana had taken to locking her bedroom door, even when she wasn't asleep. Diana had also taken to sleeping with a knife under her pillow, Hippolyta learning this the hard way when she used her key to let herself in one night after hearing Diana screaming from yet another nightmare. She'd gone to her, but in her wild, blind state, Diana had struck out with the butcher knife, nearly cutting Hippolyta's throat.

Thankfully, Diana hadn't been fully awake to know what she'd almost done. And Hippolyta had seen no reason to inform her.

Hippolyta cautiously entered the room, her eyes adjusting to the low light beside Diana's bed. And there sat Diana, awake and propped against the headboard, knife in hand, eyes as bleak and black as she'd ever seen them.

Something in Hippolyta skidded to a stop, then began an Olympic race that had her sweating. She did not like the way Diana was playing with that knife. Hippolyta wanted to reach for it, but the way Diana was holding it—close to her wrist—she didn't dare.

"Why are you up so late, Diana?" She took two steps toward her.

Diana didn't answer, just continued to stare down at the blade, slowly gliding it across her skin, not cutting, not yet. Hippolyta's heart sped up, fists clenched.

"Talk to me, sweetheart. Do you think you can do that? Will you look at me so we can talk?"

No answer.

More gliding. A thin cut this time.

Hippolyta moved closer still. Diana didn't seem to notice, her eyes fixated on the blood beginning to flow from her wrist and onto the crumpled bed sheet.

Desperate, Hippolyta said the first thing that came to her mind. "Bruce died trying to save you. He wouldn't want this. He wanted you to live."

Diana's head jerked up, eyes finally focused. And, dear lord, where had her sweet, loving girl gone? In that moment, Hippolyta felt as if she'd made a grave mistake, because the eyes that bored into her's held the tortured pain of a reanimated soul forced to live among the living—with them, but not of them.

"I should have died." The knife bit deeper. More blood. No tears. "I should have died with my family."

Neither the words nor the voice belonged to Diana. At least not the Diana she'd raised or the one she'd kissed goodnight after her baby shower. No, this was a different Diana. A Diana that shouldn't exist but the one birthed in Hell.

"You lived for a reason. Please know that. The pain you're feeling now will pass. I know it doesn't feel that way now, but it will pass. It just takes time."

"It hurts too much . . . so damn much that it chokes, leaves me breathless but cruelly alive. I don't want to wait for it to go away. I just want to go away."

Hippolyta glanced at the knife, expecting Diana to slice an artery and put an end to all her pain. But she did nothing, just continued to stare at her with those haunted eyes of hers.

"And what of Martha? Of Donna? Of me?" Guilt and love were all Hippolyta had to bargain with. She wouldn't lose her daughter. Not like this. She couldn't help her that wretched night, couldn't prevent the ugliness she'd been forced to endure. But she was here now. "With Bruce and Thomas gone, Martha only has you, Diana. She needs her daughter." _So do I._

Diana blinked. Good. Something was getting through. She kept going, unwilling to lose the slight advantage.

"And what of Donna? She looks up to you. She fell apart when you were in the hospital, Diana. A girl needs her big sister."

"I—I."

Hippolyta played her last card and went in for the kill. "If you do this, then those men will have won. Don't let them win, Diana." She reached for her daughter then, took her chin in her hand, and raised her face. "Don't let them win. Make. Them. Pay."

Diana said nothing.

Neither did Hippolyta.

Their eyes remained locked, and Hippolyta squelched the shiver that came with staring so deeply into eyes that suddenly shone with the fires of Hell.

Almost imperceptibly, Diana nodded. Then she smiled—not pretty, not sweet. Nothing so nice and benign as that. The only thing Hippolyta could liken it to was the look that came over hyenas when they had their prey cornered and afraid, knowing death was but a bloody bite away.

Without a word, Diana pushed off her covers, jumped out of bed, and walked out of the bedroom.

Hippolyta followed.

Diana moved with determined strides down the hallway then steps until she reached Bruce's library. Ignoring her mother, Diana entered the room and went to the picture of Thomas and Martha Wayne that hung over the fireplace. A minute later, the painting was slid aside and Diana was rummaging in what looked like a wall safe.

Hands full of papers and several envelopes, Diana turned and settled behind the large mahogany desk.

Hippolyta had flipped on the ceiling light when she'd entered, and Diana now used that light to scan the contents of the safe.

"Bruce said there was something he wanted to share with me. They may have taken his computer, but Bruce would never have only one copy of something he deemed important."

"So you think whatever those bastards were looking for Bruce may have secured in his safe?"

"Yes."

"What do you need me to do?"

Diana took a deep, measured breath before looking away from the documents and to Hippolyta.

"I want you to arrange a meeting with Special Agent Trevor and Commissioner Gordon. I need to know what they know."

"I'll put Donna on that. What else?" Because, no, Hippolyta knew that was not what Diana truly wanted her to do.

Sighing and slumping back in the leather chair, Diana said, "I missed their funerals."

Yes, she had. Martha had waited as long as she could, but the services had to proceed, and no one, not even the doctors, knew when or if Diana would awake. So they'd had the funeral for Bruce and Baby Wayne—without Diana. The thought now burned.

"I have yet to pay my respects. Couldn't bring myself to go to the Wayne mausoleum. Will you go with me, Mother? Will you stand by my side when I say goodbye to my husband and daughter? Will you lie to me, just once, and tell me all will be fine?"

They were both crying now. Silent and bone-deep.

"And will you help me choose a name for my daughter? I was thinking of Brina Hippolyta Wayne. Do you think Bruce would approve of that name?"

Hippolyta went to her daughter then and hoisted her up and into her arms. Brina meant protector, and that was exactly what Diana's child had done. She had protected her mother by taking that bullet, shielding Diana with her tiny body. No wonder Diana had contemplated suicide. Would Hippolyta do any different if Diana or Donna ever gave their life to save her own? Would she not too suffer from survivor's guilt?

"It's a beautiful name, Diana. Bruce would approve." And she would have it inscribed on the baby's headstone immediately.

"I'm going to find them." Diana's voice had hardened, all motherly softness gone.

"I know."

"And when I do I'm going to make them pay."

"I know."

"Not justice. Just revenge."

**Part 2, Metropolis, LexCorp**

Lex Luthor did not know why be bothered. Was he the only one who had a functioning brain in his head? Surely he was, for if he were not, then he would have the incriminating documents that Bruce Wayne had managed to pluck from his top-of-the-line LexCorp secured mainframe. The very system that he had created to keep secrets in and hackers out.

Apparently, Bruce Wayne wasn't the run-of-the-mill hacker, and Luthor's security system was as expensive as it was worthless.

He growled, then stared at the bumbling idiots in front of him.

"We got you the computer, what else do you want from us?"

Actually, he wanted them both dead. And they would be. But not yet. Men as ruthless as they were, unfortunately, were hard to find. And they so did enjoy their work.

"The computer had nothing of importance on it."

"How in the hell was I supposed to know that?"

Luthor clenched and unclenched his fists, willing calm into his body. "If you had done what I told you to do, you would have been able to get the information from Bruce Wayne. Instead you shot and killed the damn man, Bane."

The ridiculously huge man didn't flinch from Luthor's raised voice, nor did he look the least bit concerned with his growing ire.

"I was there, you wasn't. Wayne wasn't going to give me shit."

"That's what the wife was for, genius. But no, you had to take this" —he pointed to the skinny fool beside Bane— "gun happy lunatic with you."

Luthor narrowed his eyes at Jack Napier. The sociopath went by the name "Joker," and had a thing for guns and knives. The Wayne woman never stood a chance. _But she'd survived. It would've been better if she'd died._

"Dr. Diana Wayne works for the goddamn president of the United States. Why in the hell didn't you make sure the woman was dead? Now, we can't touch her. Commissioner Gordon thinks it was a home invasion gone wrong. If something happens to the wife now, Obama will stop at nothing to find her killer. As it is, he's already assigned several FBI agents to her. That manor is like Fort Knox. We can't touch her."

"She won't always have those agents around her," the Joker said, his Adam's apple bobbing as he spoke. "We just have to bide our time. See if she knows anything."

Luthor sneered at the man, who, he had to admit, had a point. Luthor may be worrying over nothing. The woman had, after all, just lost her husband and child, how much of a threat could she be? And if it turned out that she knew something or was in possession of what he wanted . . . well, Luthor would just have to send Joker to finish the job.

"I wired your payment to your account," he told the men. "I suggest you lay low. I know how to find you." He turned his back on them saying, "Don't call me, I'll call you. Now get the hell out of my office."

A moment later, he heard the soft _click_ of his door. A second after that, the door connecting his to the one next door opened.

"I assume you heard all of that?" Luthor said.

"Of course. Do you think we can trust them?"

"No, but they're all about the money and self-preservation. They'll hide under whatever rock they slithered out of until we decide what our next steps will be."

"And do you really think the wife is of no threat to us?"

Luthor took no pleasure in harming women. But such outdated sentimentality had never stopped him before. "For her sake, I hope she doesn't turn out to be as big a pain in our asses as her dear, departed husband."

"We can't afford her to be. Right now, she has the president's ear. We aren't ready for that kind of challenge yet."

No, no they weren't. _But soon._

"Sit and let's discuss strategy."

Ra's al Ghul sat.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. Chapter 4: Endings

**Chapter 4: Endings**

Three Months Later

Metropolis, Kent Residence

Clark Kent's life was falling apart, and it was all his fault. Well, not exactly _all _his fault, but the bulk of the blame for his sorry state could be placed squarely on his shoulders. In truth, a part of him knew this day would come. He'd known it was only a matter of time before the careful life he'd constructed came crumbling down around him. Knew that Lois would eventually see him for the fraud he was.

"When will the moving van arrive?"

Not bothering to turn away from the box she was packing, Lois simply said, "They're supposed to be here by 9:30."

Clark glanced at the clock in the study. It was only 8:45. Then he looked down at his kneeling wife, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore no makeup today, just faded blue jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and a wisp of lip gloss, all of which made Lois look like the stereotypically sweet, innocent girl next door.

He turned away from Lois and back to his own box, stuffing books inside, making sure not to make the box too heavy for the movers.

There was nothing innocent or particularly sweet about Lois Lane. Sure, she had a heart as big as an ocean. There were people and causes she cared deeply about, and she would fight for those she loved. But none of that made her sweet or innocent. It did, however, make her both tough and vulnerable.

"I'm sorry." The words were rough and raw when they came out. He'd said them many times over the last couple of years, even more since he returned from Gotham several months ago. And more still when she'd come to him, told Clark she intended to move out and wanted a divorce.

"So you've said."

She was never one to make things easy on him. He probably didn't deserve it, anyway.

"I know, but I don't think you believe me." Their backs were still to each other, Clark unsure whether he wanted to see the pain and anger in his wife's eyes. The pain he managed to put there, time and again. He was good at that, breaking the hearts of the women he loved, the women who loved him.

"Oh, I believe, you Clark. I just don't care anymore. Frankly, I'm too tired to care, too damn tired to keep doing this with you."

Clark spun around then and faced his petite wife, whose force of spirit dwarfed his own.

"This wasn't what I wanted for us when I asked you to marry me."

Lois shook her head. "I should have known better. I allowed you to pull me into your Smallville web, thinking with your writing talent and me as your agent we could go far together."

And they had. When Clark had met Lois, he'd been a green reporter with the _Daily Planet_. He liked being a reporter, but it wasn't his passion. No, writing novels had been his passion, his love, what kept him sane when all around him had disintegrated. But she'd been there, with her big city talk and larger-than-life attitude.

_The Daily Planet _was just a steppingstone for her, because, no, Lois Lane had plans much bigger than the local news rag. And after a few months of getting to know each other, Clark had asked her to read a few chapters of his first novel. To his surprise, she'd actually liked it. To his greater surprise, she offered to see what she could do to get it published. And what he'd eventually come to learn and appreciate was that once Lois set her mind to something, there was little she couldn't accomplish. Within six months, she'd sold his first novel. A year after that she'd opened a one-woman publishing agency with Clark Kent as her first client.

And by year's end they were wed. Now, nearly six years later, they were headed for divorce, having crashed and burned at supersonic speed.

"You're a great agent, Lois. A writer couldn't ask for better."

She rolled her eyes then laughed, bitter and with regret. "That's what every woman wants to hear from her husband when she's about to leave him." She tossed another book into her box. "You never even asked me to stay, to give us a second chance." There were tears in her voice now, but Clark knew she would never let them fall. Not that Lois had never cried over him. He knew she had. It was just that Lois refused to cry in front of anyone, even him. _Except that night. _

But, no, he hadn't asked her to stay. "Would my asking have made any difference?"

"That's the wrong question, Smallville."

He hated when she called him that, especially with that haughty lilt in her voice that reminded him that, no matter his fame, his respectable bank account, when all was said and done, Clark Kent was nothing more than a farm boy whose parents had abandoned him when he was too young to remember their faces.

"The question you should be asking is 'why'."

He said nothing, just met her challenging glare with a blank expression. He knew where she was headed with this and refused to be baited. Not that it mattered. Lois was going to have her say, Clark could see from the determined way she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him as if he'd been creeping around with another woman.

"You've hardly spared me one worthy glance since you returned from Gotham. All you do is write, locking yourself in your study for hours on end, coming to bed long after I've given up waiting for you and fallen asleep. You haven't touched me, not even a hug or a kiss. Nothing."

The challenge morphed into something Clark couldn't stomach to see—hurt, disappointment, rejection.

"Did you ever love me, Clark?"

"What kind of question is that?" he snapped. "I wouldn't have married you if I didn't love you, Lois. Hell, I know we have serious personality clashes, but I've always loved you. Even with all this shit between us, I still love you."

Her snort was mocking, if not downright derisive. "Do you love me as much as you loved her?"

Clark blinked, and said nothing. He knew the "her" to which Lois referred. He didn't know how to answer such a question. Lois was his wife. The woman he'd chosen to be with, pledged his love and fidelity to. Yet . . .

"Even now you can't even be honest, not with me, not even with yourself. You're freakin' unbelievable."

"This isn't about Diana."

"It's _always_ been about Diana. God dammit, Clark, at least respect me enough to finally speak the truth. Yes, I can believe that you love me. I can even admit that you married me in good faith and hoped we'd have a happy marriage. But, for both of our sakes', own up to the truth so we can move on."

Clark dropped onto the brown leather loveseat, and stared up at a fuming and too-sure Lois, feeling suddenly ashamed and breathless. What in the hell had he done? He'd fucked everything up. With Lois. With Diana.

"I'll take my share of the blame, Clark. The insecure part of me have always known. I hoped, in time, you'd grow to love me as much as you loved her. And when I had C.J., I convinced myself that your heart only belonged to us. But I was wrong."

"I-I never betrayed you, Lois." He sounded like the pathetic man he'd devolved into.

"You never cheated, true, but betrayal is more than a physical act of lust and need. Hell, it may have been better if you'd taken a lover. No, Clark, your betrayal was far worse. I could never win your heart because you had already given it to her. And while you pined for Diana and gave me only part of you, your precious princess married the most sought-after bachelor in Gotham."

The wedding of Diana Prince to Bruce Wayne had been in the Society section of all the major papers. Local news and cable shows were all the buzz about the young philanthropist and his beautiful and brilliant fiancée. Not to be outdone, _The Daily Planet_ had run several stories on the "Couple of the Year." Gratefully, the story had been assigned to another reporter.

"You've been such a fool, Clark. You may not have fully loved me or gotten over Diana Wayne. But, I assure you, your princess loved her prince with all her heart."

Lois was the one who had been given the Diana and Bruce story, and she'd run with it. With gusto, as she did with all her stories. And her columns were excellent, among the best that he'd read. And, shit, Clark had read Lois's and every other story on Bruce and Diana, each word and smiling picture gouging his heart out.

And, yes, Diana wore her love for Bruce for all the world to see. The pictures of them together didn't lie. Diana's love for Bruce shone brightly in her eyes, even through the lens of a camera. And Clark had remembered that look. Remembered when she'd use to gaze at him in the same way. But he also remembered the pain and sadness he'd put in her eyes. The same he'd put in Lois's.

"But I guess you'll get a second chance with Diana Wayne. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Again, Lois's frank words left him speechless.

"She's the reason why you'll let me walk away from this house, you, and our marriage."

He shook his head. "If I thought there was anything I could say to make you stay, to make us work, I'd say it. I-I just don't have the words, Lois. I wish I did. I wish . . ." _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I wish I could say that you're wrong. I wish I could make my heart obey my mind and love you the way you've always deserved to be loved._

Lois sank down next to him, then leaned her head against the cushions. "If nothing else, we got C.J. from our time together."

Another sore spot for Clark, but he didn't want to think about that either.

"I only met her once, at a fundraising dinner for Barack Obama. I thought no one could be as sweet, kind, and intelligent as everyone said she was. I was sure that she was all show and no substance." Lois closed the divide between them, twining her fingers with his. "When I met her, I saw instantly why she'd captured Bruce Wayne's heart . . . _and yours_."

Clark closed his eyes, and held tighter to Lois's hand. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought, with time, my love for Diana would fade." Instead, he'd simply buried it and pretended as if it didn't exist, that _it or she_ no longer mattered. But her near-death had brought it back. His feelings for her had clawed its way to the surface, and now refused to be buried again.

"I read the e-mail Bruce Wayne sent you."

Clark didn't even bother being mad at Lois for invading his privacy. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself. He opened his eyes and turned to face her.

"He knew there was a possibility that something might happen to him and that Diana and the baby would be left alone," she said.

Except there was no baby, and Diana . . . well, she was just _alone_. And what had he done when she was crying for her deceased husband and child? Well, he'd run. Just like last time.

"You have three years." Lois stood.

"I'm not worthy of his plan or her."

Lois looked down at him, a glimmer of pity in her eyes. "No, no you're not. But, like I said, you have three years to make yourself worthy." She returned to her box, folded the flaps and taped it shut. "I suggest you don't waste the time. If you love her, and we both know you still do, then get your shit together and reclaim your Diana before some other guy gets there first."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. Chapter 5: Beginnings

**Chapter 5: Beginnings**

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

**Part 1**

Diana paused outside of the double cherry wooden doors to the conference room and forced herself to take deep, slow breaths. She could do this. She would do this.

But why did it feel as if every eye had been on her since she'd entered the glass doors of Wayne Industries? She knew the answer to that. Of course, she knew. _Because they had._

It was true. From the security guards to the lobby receptionist, all the employees of Wayne Industries who'd seen Diana walk through the halls in her black mourning dress responded in the same way, with a smile laced with sympathy.

She was so damn tired of everyone feeling sorry for her. Tired of the incalculable pity that always shone brighter than whatever words of compassion they uttered.

Now, three months after Bruce's murder, Diana had not only ventured from the Wayne Manor but she'd done so with a single-minded purpose. Today would mark the beginning, a courageous and unavoidable leap that had nothing to do with faith. No, Diana no longer believed in or fancied the idea of blind faith. Instead, she advocated self-determination. She would control her fate, framing it to her new reality. A reality that included the emancipation of her battered soul, a reality in which justice and revenge ruled and passive resistance held no sway.

"It's okay, Diana, you don't have to do this today if you're not ready. No one will blame you."

Perhaps not, but she wouldn't be able to face herself if she put this off. Three months had already passed, and there had been no news about the men who'd invaded her home, shredded her peace, and ripped her family from her. Even with the capable efforts of the FBI agents President Obama had assigned to the case, the men had yet to be located. _Disappeared without a trace_. That's what Steve had told her. _Unacceptable._

The situation was unforgivably unacceptable. But she wasn't defenseless, without her own fangs and claws. Those responsible for the death of Bruce and Briana would soon grow to understand that a woman left with nothing is the most dangerous creature of them all. _A predator of predators._

"Thank you, Steve, but no. Today is the right day for this. I won't abide them any longer."

"As long as you're sure. You know I'm here for you."

She nodded, gaze not on the tall Special Agent but the door that loomed within reach.

Steve misunderstood her apprehension to enter the conference room. Nerves did not assail her nor held her where she stood. She had nerves of steel, and the people on the other side of the doors weren't capable of mustering that level of discomfort in her. But she would discomfort them, make them regret their betrayal. And that was why she'd halted, to take in the sweet aroma of caged anticipation.

Allowing Steve to open the door for her, Diana nodded her thanks then entered. Windows on two sides, the spacious room held a large rectangular glass table in the center, taking up the breadth of the space. And around the table sat ten people, six men and four women. All white, all fifty-five plus, and all staring smugly at Diana.

This was Bruce's domain, where he conducted business. Up until today, Diana had no cause to enter this sacred—_profane_—place.

She stared out over Wayne Industries board of directors, hard, blue eyes traveling from one board member to the other, matching faces to the profiles Victor had pulled for her. She knew them, knew them all, their strengths, their weaknesses, their _secrets_.

"Thank you for meeting me here today."

She gestured to the men, who'd stood when she'd entered, to retake their posh leather seats, a luxury that, in a few minutes, they would no longer be able to claim.

An empty chair remained, quiet and still at the head of the table. _Bruce's chair. _Ignoring the pang of grief, Diana walked the length of the room and claimed the chair with all the hauteur of a queen atop a dais.

Leaning back in the high-back black chair, Diana crossed slender legs and spoke in a voice devoid of the vast and harsh emotion whirling within.

"You all have served Wayne Industries since the days of Thomas Wayne. And when Thomas died you continued to serve, acting as not only the company's board but its CEO as well."

Many of them nodded, appearing inordinately pleased with their touted dedication.

"Martha Wayne, though an intelligent woman, had no interest in taking on the mantle left by her husband, and Bruce . . . well, Bruce was but a boy when his father died."

"Of course we did. We were all surprised when we learned that poor Thomas had drowned in that terrible storm."

This came from Mr. Fletcher. The nearly seventy-year old man with the perfectly-tailored, all-black Italian suit sat immediately to Diana's right. Of course, the longest standing member of the board would be the first to speak, to blow his own "magnanimous" horn.

"We kept the CEO spot warm for young Wayne until he was old enough to take his rightful place here, with us."

"Ah, that you all did, Fletcher." But they'd done so much more than that. "Did Bruce display the proper appreciation for all the years of dedicated service of this board when he became CEO?"

"Well . . . um, I assure you, there was no need for appreciation or thanks. We loved Thomas, and we love this company. Keeping it in the black was our goal."

"And you've all have done an admirable job."

They smiled at Diana and each other, a mutual appreciation society at its best.

"Yet, Mr. Fletcher," Diana said, cutting the man off when he made to say more, "power and money can tempt even the best of us."

"What do you mean, Dr. Wayne?" Mrs. Conway asked, her eagle gray eyes suspicious and unfriendly.

"Lord Acton once said that 'power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.'"

Mrs. Conway began to play with the tea cup in front of her, taking a sip then placing it back on the saucer.

"Why have you convened this meeting, Dr. Wayne?" Mr. Fletcher asked, the first note of concern in his voice. "I assure you, ma'am, we will see Wayne Industries through this unexpected storm as well. You need not worry."

Diana almost laughed at the man's deliberate misunderstanding of her words. But she didn't do that anymore, the urge to laugh, or even smile, such a rare occurrence nowadays. And there was nothing humorous about this situation, these people.

"Let me speak plainly," she said, turning her gaze to the group. "You will leave Wayne Industries today and never return. You will simply exit this conference room, make two rights until you reach the elevators, take one down to the first floor and walk through the revolving glass doors. You will do this when I dismiss you all. You will not return to your offices because, as I speak, they're being cleared out. You will not receive a severance package, a letter of recommendation, or the use of any Wayne Industries' properties or benefits."

Shocked sputtering began, but Diana ignored them.

"Whatever stock you owned in this company . . . _my company_ will be forfeited. You will take absolutely _nothing_ with you."

Mr. Fletcher slammed his age-spotted fist onto the table. "You can't do this. No law or company policy exists that gives you the power to do what you're trying to do."

The eyes Diana turned on the older man could have frozen him where he sat. "Yet that is exactly what will happen. You have shamed yourselves, your families, and this company. You've allowed yourselves to be bought and paid, a cheap whore selling herself to the highest bidder. Bruce knew, and now I know it. It and you will no longer be tolerated."

"This is bullshit."

"I'll sue. You can't take everything from us."

"You're not a true Wayne, just another Obama liberal who looks good on television and in a skirt."

Steve stepped toward the angry board members. "You might want to watch your tongues. The lady's being real reasonable. I don't think you want to see what happens when she stops being reasonable."

"Th-this, this isn't being reasonable," Mr. Fletcher spat. "This is insane. You can't do this. You won't."

Diana did laugh then, low and vicious.

"Mr. Fletcher you sold your soul to the devil a very long time ago. I suspect long before Thomas Wayne died. You have three off-shore accounts that neither the IRS or your wife knows about. Every Tuesday and Thursday, for the last ten years, you visit a little massage parlor in a part of Gotham a man like you shouldn't even know exist." Diana faced him, their eyes locking, her voice firm and not the least bit low. "Would you like for me to tell you what you always order . . . or rather who you like to order?"

The man's face reddened, then his eyes shot around the table. He swallowed and sat back in his chair, face pale, mouth working but nothing coming out.

Diana faced the others. "Bruce was the smartest man I knew. When he took on the role of CEO five years ago, it was a steep learning curve. He'd eventually mastered it, but in the meantime, he had to learn and read and research. And Bruce and research is a like a detective on a hot case, all the pieces eventually come together, revealing the most interesting puzzle."

There were no more heated, self-righteous outbursts from them. Silence met Diana's words and downcast eyes followed.

"Because of you, because of your greed and alliance with the unsavory elements of the world, my husband and child are dead. For that, I will never forgive you. For that, I will turn you out and give you nothing but a warning."

She stood, smoothed down her dress and tasted the salty-sweetness of her fury. Bruce and Martha had trusted them. For years, they'd relied on their leadership, friendship, and guidance. Yet they'd been engaging in insider trading and making a hell of a lot of money from it. The products produced at Wayne Industries could save lives but also start wars, the intent of the creator not always the same as the use of the creation.

"I will utterly, mercilessly destroy what is left of your pathetic hides if I ever learn that you had direct knowledge or in any way aided the men who murdered my family."

"We had nothing to do with that," Mr. Fletcher said. "We were saddened to hear what had happened to the two you. We never thought . . . we never wanted—

Mr. Fletcher dropped his face in his hands.

His obvious distress was the first honest thing to come from the man since Diana had entered the room. But distress did not mean he knew nothing of the attack. Steve would find out exactly what they all knew. That was his job, and the man was exceedingly good at his job.

"Lack of intent, Mr. Fletcher, does not mitigate impact . . . or absolve you of responsibility."

Diana was tired of looking at them. They all disgusted her, made her feel evil and vile for what she truly wanted to do to them. Ultimate revenge was a path she would not take, but that didn't prevent her from envisioning their very slow and painful deaths. No, there were ways to punish people that would make them wish they were dead. That kind of justice she was not above.

Walking away from Bruce's former board and to the double doors, Diana opened them, then said, "Steve, get them the hell off my property, and alert security to arrest them if they're stupid enough to ever show their faces around here again."

She walked out, having completed phase one of Bruce's plan.

_On to phase two. My new board._

**Part 2**

**Three Years Later**

"Yes, Talia?"

"Your one o'clock is here, Dr. Wayne."

Diana stood from her desk and turned to look out of the expansive window. Being on the thirtieth floor gave the illusion of godhood, so close to the clouds and Heaven and enlightenment.

But no holiness touched Diana. Nor could she claim enlightenment. Yet she did wish that she could sprout wings and fly, soar above all the manmade ugliness of the world and find the mystical place of fairy tales and happily-ever-afters.

"Dr. Wayne?" Talia queried through the phone's speaker. "Is it all right for me to send him in?"

Sighing with resignation, Diana returned to her desk and sat. "Please send him in, Talia. Thank you."

A moment later, the door to her office opened and her past collided with her present.

_Diana walked briskly down the corridor, her white and pink sundress flowing about her, covering her purpose with its soft delicate folds. She reached the end of the corridor, looked behind her and to her left. Satisfied, she made a sharp right, her footsteps undetectable, her face set and determined. Two more corridors, another right, and then a left, her pace suddenly stilted, a white door now loomed before her. She glanced carefully about her for the third time since undertaking this dangerous mission. The corridor was clear, but she couldn't relax. Not until she was inside and out of sight._

_She moved one-step closer to the door, intentionally setting off the security sensor, alerting the person inside to her presence. Five seconds later, the plain white door opened silently, permitting Diana to enter. She stepped over the threshold and the door closed, sealing her in with the smoothest of effort._

_The room was dark save three candles in the center. She moved in the direction of the candles, arms outstretched in front of her afraid she'd run into a table or chair. But she need not have been afraid of such conventional accidents, for a hand reached for her, pulling her deeper into the darkness, deeper into the forbidden._

_One hand covered the mouth that threatened a scream, while the other took hold of her dress and roughly pulled her. She went willingly, eyes wide and heart racing, the hands fully in control. Deeper and deeper into the room she went, her tall frame virtually carried by the set of strong hands. And when she was to the candles, the only illumination brave enough to shed light on this most secretive of events, did the hand over her mouth release her and the one on her back gentle._

"_I thought you had changed your mind, Diana. You're late, and you're never late."_

_She reached and touched the cheek of her captive, and smiled sweetly up at him. "You need to have more faith, Clark. Faith doesn't come from a weapon, but the complex workings of the heart, of the mind."_

"_Ah, such the philosopher. A dove in a world of hawks."_

_Diana sighed and placed her fingers to Clark's lips. "Everything in life isn't about battle. What about peace, Clark?"_

"_Weapons bring about peace, Diana, not prayers. No one respects prayers, but everyone respects power."_

"_You minimize the significance of prayer and narrowly define power to physical might only."_

"_What other might is there?" he asked, his voice a gentle challenge._

_The power of love she told herself. But she wasn't quite ready to make such a declaration aloud, for spoken words have meaning and a might of their own._

_Diana flicked on a nearby light, needing to see his face, his eyes, his deceptively wicked smile._

_They both blinked until their eyes adjusted to the slight change in illumination._

"_Ah, Diana, you ruined the romantic atmosphere." _

"_I didn't think frat boys believed in romance."_

_He frowned._ "_We don't," he said, his voice taking on a low, husky quality Diana's come to know and appreciate over the last few weeks, "except when we want to impress a very special woman."_

_He bent his head to kiss her, and she accepted it with the same throat-tightening anticipation as she'd done the very first time they'd kissed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, her body relaxing into the stolen familiarity. Clark lifted her onto his lap, his sturdy arms supporting her, molding her body to his own, causing heat to radiate from every pore._

_And they kissed, slow, sensual, inexperienced kisses. Diana threaded fingers through thick, onyx hair, while her other hand circled his right ear, enjoying the small shiver she felt run through him. Then it was she who shivered when Clark ran his hand from thigh to hip._

"_Diana, I hate all this creeping around," Clark said, abruptly pulling out of the embrace. _

_So did she. "But you were the one who said we had to keep our relationship a secret."_

"_I know. I know. It's just . . . well, with your mother owning the resort and my cousin, Kara, serving as the manager" –he shrugged— "I just don't want to risk getting Kara into trouble with her boss."_

_Diana had heard this all before. She didn't agree with Clark. Her mother was a demanding employer, true, but not an unfair one. Besides, what had developed between Clark and Diana this summer had nothing to do with Kara. _

_He nuzzled her neck and ear. "I never expected Kara's invitation to visit her in L.A. would turn out to be so amazing."_

_She giggled at his attentions. His tongue laved her neck then he sucked and bit, and she went wet._

"_A-are you saying that I'm 'amazing'?"_

"_Oh, baby, you're so much more than that. Amazing. Wonderful. Beautiful." He kissed her after each word, a delicious punctuation. "Sexy." Another kiss, between her breasts where the dressed dipped low. "So god damn hot."_

_He kissed her mouth, pushing his tongue inside and roaming free. Clark tasted of mint and chocolate and man. Damn but he made her feel like such a woman. At nineteen, Diana had traveled on planes and boats that had taken her to sites of ancient cities and ruins, had attended the best private schools, and had met dignitaries the world-over when they'd stayed at one of her mother's numerous resorts, yet Diana Prince had never been in love. She'd never known or even desired the intimate touch of a man. Now, however, she was and she wanted Clark to touch her and never stop touching her._

_After endless minutes, they drew apart, but not far. _

"_Summer vacation is almost up. I'll have to return to Smallville in two weeks."_

_Yeah, she'd been counting down the days, not in eagerness but in dread. She didn't want him to leave, didn't want this magical summer to ever end._

_Diana rested her head on his broad shoulder, wishing they didn't live in different states or went to different universities. Come fall, she would be back in Cambridge studying Poli Sci at Harvard and Clark would return to his studies in English at Kansas State University. They would probably never see each other again, this summer but a distant memory._

_He stroked her hair, the mood in the room decidedly melancholic. _

"_I don't want to lose you, Diana, not to distance or to another guy."_

"_You won't lose me." But would she lose him. She was pretty and smart sure, but so were a lot of other girls. And while she'd never been to Kansas, Diana was positive there were plenty of pretty and smart girls there, too. Girls who would take one look at the handsome and affable Clark Kent, losing their minds and their panties to him._

_Unlike her who'd vowed she would wait for the right time, the right man. And while her heart told her Clark Kent was indeed the right man, now, this summer, was not the right time._

_She would lose him._

"_If I promise to come back next summer, will you promise the same?"_

_It wasn't much of a promise since her mother required Diana to learn all aspects of the business, preferring her girls to get hands-on experience at the major Paradise Island Resort. There were other locations: Miami, San Francisco, Washington, D.C. Even one in Rome, which was where Hippolyta was now, overseeing its grand opening. This was also why Diana had managed to spend so much time with Kara's cousin without the overprotective eye of her mother._

"_I'll be here."_

_He cleared his throat. "If I promise to be true to you during the school year, will you promise the same?"_

_Diana lifted her head from his shoulder. "What exactly do you mean?"_

"_I mean I'm not interested in dating other girls, and I hope you're not interested in dating other guys. We can't help the distance, for now, but I know what I feel when I look at you, touch you, kiss you."_

"_And what is that?" It was a hopeful question full of a young woman's fairy tale dreams._

"_That you're everything that's been missing in my life."_

"_How can you say such a thing, Clark? Be so sure?"_

"_I just am." He kissed her nose, her cheek, her mouth. "I love you, Diana. I know we've only known each other a short while and you may not believe me. But I love you. I will always love you no matter what happens between us or how far you are from me."_

_Warm tears fell and Diana wanted to tell Clark that she loved him too, that love and a future with him was also what she wanted, no matter that Kara and Hippolyta would probably say that they were too young to know better. But she could voice none of that, because she was drowning in Clark's kisses. _

_She would make the promise later. There was no other man for Diana Prince. No one would ever claim her heart the way that Clark Kent had._

Diana blinked and the image did not change. He was truly there, standing in her office, warping reality with his masculine, overpowering presence.

"Hello, Diana."

"Hello, Clark."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	7. Chapter 6: Long Distance

**Chapter 6: Long Distance**

**Part 1**

**Manhattan, Kansas**

**Haymaker Hall, Kansas State University**

"Oh, so you're too good to have a convo in front of me, Clark?"

Clark sneered at his roommate right before he slammed his bedroom door in the asshole's face.

"Just because some Harvard bitch got you all pussy whipped doesn't mean you're better than anybody else. Don't forget, Kent, at the end of the day you're just a Kansas no-nothing. And once the novelty of being with a guy who smells like wheat and good ole fashioned manual labor, your girl's gonna drop your sorry ass for someone who has class and can buy her all the shit rich, stuck-up bitches like her whine for."

Before the last words were out of Michael's mouth, Clark had swung the door open and was moving toward the drunk blonde with balled fists and blazing eyes.

He grabbed Michael by his purple KSU T-shirt and brought them face-to-face. "I'm tired of your shit, Michael. If you don't like me, fine. If you want to move out and get another roommate, then do it. If you want to dip your remaining brain cells in beer, knock yourself out. But what you absolutely won't do is get in my business, my way, or speak of Diana ever again."

Michael Lewis was a pain in the ass jock on his best day, an ugly drunk every other day. Why the twenty-two year-old was still trying to hustle a degree out of KSU, Clark couldn't fathom. But none of that mattered. The guy was so beyond out of bounds, Clark just wanted to smash his belligerent face in.

He shook him, ignoring the way his head kinda lolled to the side when he did it. "You got me, Mike? Not. Another. Word."

"Yeah, yeah, got you, man." He tried shoving Clark away, but he didn't budge, didn't let the asshole go. "Alright, jeez, you've made your point. Now get the hell off me."

This time, Clark released him, dropping him to the floor. Mike gave Clark a red-eyed look that was part angry, part fearful, part pathetic. "You're a real freak, Clark." Mike snatched another beer from the frig, twisted off the cap and took a long pull. "I was just jokin' with you. Fuck, some guys," he mumbled, draining the rest of his beer in two greedy gulps. "I'm going out."

"Good."

Sliding his feet into tied sneakers, Mike located his car keys and moved to the door. "It ain't natural, man, pining over a girl who's too far away for you to fuck."

Yeah, Clark had heard this drunken "wisdom" before.

"Maybe if you got laid every once in a while you wouldn't be such an uptight dick."

"I thought you were going."

The phone rang.

_Right on time._

Clark grabbed the phone from the cradle before it reached the third ring. Clicking it on, he said, "Hey, sweetie, just a sec." He reached one hand out to Mike. "Give me the damn keys before I take them from you."

Mike groaned, threw the keys at him then glared at Clark. "What on earth did I do wrong to be paired with a fuckin' boy scout who prefers phone sex to the real thing?"

"Get out, Mike."

Clark didn't wait for a reply or the door to close before he turned away from Michael Lewis. If the guy were very lucky, one of the female residents wouldn't call campus security on him. Again.

Clark lifted the phone back up to his ear. "Hey, beautiful."

"Hey yourself."

Although Mike was gone, Clark still opted to talk to Diana in his bedroom. Leaving the door open, he fell on his bed, glad to have the room to himself.

"Was Michael drunk again?"

"Of course."

"Did you guys get into another argument?"

"Of course."

"Want to talk about it?"

He really didn't. Mike was the roommate from hell and Clark had already spent too many nights complaining to Diana about a man she had never and would never meet.

"No, sweetie, not tonight." Shifting subjects, Clark asked, "Did you get my gift?"

That really wasn't the question he wanted to ask. In truth, he only wanted to know one thing. _Do you like it?_

"I did."

_And, what do you think?_

"No one's ever given me such a gift before."

_What does that mean?_

She sighed, and it should not have been a sexy sound, but it was. Clark turned over to stare at the picture of them he'd asked Kara to take the day before he returned to Kansas. Diana wore white wrapped skirt and a matching top that showed off her toned, flat stomach and unbelievable breasts. Her wavy black hair fell around her shoulders like an exquisite, silken scarf and her smile was all for him.

Clark couldn't say how many times a day he stared at that picture, wondering if all of their promises at summer's end were an illusion or the beginning of something truly extraordinary.

"The book is magnificent, Clark. I had no idea you were this talented, so eloquent and poetic with the written word."

Few did. His passion for writing was something he'd kept to himself. As far as his parents were concerned, writing was a good hobby but not a real career choice. But they'd indulged his interest, supported him even with a summer writing class, here and there, when he was a kid. They also supported him when he'd announced he wanted to major in English. But they also viewed such a degree as one step to him becoming an English teacher in Smallville. A respectable, practical job, for sure, but not exactly his dream job. Not his passion.

"You're wonderful inspiration, Diana."

"And you're an unrepentant flatterer."

He laughed, but his words were sincere. Clark had never found forming the right words, sentences, and paragraph as easy as when he'd thought of Diana. Diana Prince was an excellent muse for a man who often required inspiration to transcend the normal everyday monotony of life and find the unique rainbow of colors living just beyond the known, the unimaginable.

And so his _Book of Diana_ had begun, on the flight from L.A. when a farm boy's insecurity threatened to choke him with the reality that a woman like Diana Prince couldn't possibly be serious about a man like Clark Kent.

Yet, true to her word, Diana did not forget about him. No, she called him nearly every night, in spite of their different time zones. Six months. It had been six months since they'd last seen each other.

"Recite one for me, Clark."

He settled deeper onto the bed, wishing, like always, that Diana snuggled next to him. But her voice was warm and sweet and tender. And that would have to do.

"Which one?"

"Your favorite."

This was easy. While Clark was proud of each prose in his _Book of Diana_, his favorite was the first he'd written. _In my mind, the night after she told me she loved me._

He cleared his throat and began. "Sometimes we know not what we want when the wind blows and whispers soundlessly in our ears. We may feel the tickle of a presence but convince ourselves that the ghosting sensation is but a mirage in the desert of our overheated, undernourished mind. Yet when we sleep, when our defenses yield to fatigue and dreams, the wind comes again, stronger and more insistent. It speaks, not in words but in pulsing, rhythmic beats that only the soul can decipher. But it is the heart that answers the call. It is the heart that thuds out a returning beat. It bangs the drum over and over, creating the lyrics to a song for a symphony begun by the wind. And when the two merge, when they join in acoustic symmetry, the want no longer matters. It never truly did. Need and acceptance. Acceptance and love. Love and Diana. Diana and Clark."

Clark opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. "Happy Valentine's Day, Diana."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Clark."

**Part 2**

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

Clark could do nothing but stare at the seated woman. It had been ten years since they'd been face-to-face. Ten years since her blue eyes had met his equally blue eyes. And the chasm of time pulled at him now. The loss, the pride, the stupidity clung to him like a toxic vapor.

He felt nauseous, capable of tossing the chicken salad sandwich and chips he'd had for lunch all over Diana's expensive-looking Oriental rug. Forcing himself to breathe, to not lose it in front of her, Clark smiled and prayed she couldn't see how badly he shook.

"Have a seat, Clark."

Diana gestured to one of the three chairs in front of her desk.

Mindlessly, he made his way to the middle one and sat, pleased to be off legs he wasn't sure would continue to hold his weight. And then, because it was simply impossible not to, he stared at Diana.

And, damn, if she wasn't even more beautiful. She'd grown into a woman. When they were twenty-three, he thought her a woman, and himself a man. But gazing at her now, he knew differently. Diana radiated a confidence and inner strength that was only beginning to bloom ten years ago.

Regal and graceful, her posture perfect, face flawless, clothing more of an accessory to an amazing form, Diana was nothing short of breathtaking. Yet for all the stunning, mouth-watering picture she made, her natural evolution from young to mature woman, the Diana of his dreams, of his past, did not stare out from those azure eyes of hers.

No, this Diana was nothing like his Diana. No laughter circled her eyes or mouth. No tender sweet appeal lightened too-taut features. No fun-loving exuberance fell from hair constrained and constricted atop her head, a gilded cage for all that had been.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me."

She nodded, curt and without expression. This would be more difficult than he'd imagined. But really, what did he expect? They no longer knew each other. He was borrowing on old friendship and her loyalty to the memory of her dead husband. That was it. But would it be enough? He hoped it would.

Diana used to argue faith to him, whether he wanted to hear it or not. He didn't understand it then, he did now. Faith was an intangible truth in a world of tangible lies, tangible mistakes, and tangible heartaches.

Diana glanced at a picture on her desk. Turned toward her and away from him, Clark couldn't see what had caught her attention. But for the briefest of moments, something shifted in her eyes, softening her just a bit. But the moment was fleeting and Clark wondered if he'd imagined it.

"You turned Bruce down five years ago, Clark."

"Actually, my agent turned Bruce down."

"What's the difference?"

_Too many arguments and a ruined marriage, that's the difference._

"She didn't inform me before rejecting the offer." It had been Clark and Lois's worst argument ever. The one that had resulted in—

"Yet you allowed the decision to stand, never contacting Bruce on your own."

Yes, he had. But how could he explain to her that his life had taken a downward turn after the offer? He would, eventually, that was part of the reason he was there. Clark wanted no more lies or misunderstandings between them. In time, he would reveal all. Diana deserved no less.

"I wasn't ready then; I am now."

She glanced at the picture again, then back at him.

"I was unaware that Bruce had made you a second offer."

"I was surprised."

Diana studied him, and, to his surprise, he found her stern appraisal intimidating, if not a tad scary. No, this was so not the woman he used to know.

"Yet you are three years late, Clark. Why did you bring this to me now?"

He knew she would ask him that, so he was prepared. "You weren't ready before now." _And neither was I._

Her blue eyes turned soulless black and arctic cold. And not for the first time since entering Diana's office, Clark wondered at the change in his princess. If this was what her family's deaths had done to her, maybe he should've come earlier. Where in the world were Hippolyta and Donna? Could they not have done something to help her, to prevent this?

"If you still are not ready, I can go." His words were a calculated risk. He knew, without a doubt, that if she put him out her office now, she would never allow him back in. But Diana, like her mother and sister, never shied from a challenge, her pride as great as any man's. Clark now hoped that hadn't changed about her, too.

"I'm not fond of emotional manipulation. Nor do I believe the only reason you are here is to fulfill a dead man's request."

Fair enough. If she could be blunt, Clark would oblige.

"I want to write this book, Diana. It's a coup for any writer; we both know it. Thomas Wayne was the greatest philanthropist and business mind of his time. And Bruce was no different. Writing a biography on Thomas Wayne is a dream of a lifetime."

He couldn't tell the impact of his frank words on Diana. Put simply, the woman had no affectation.

"It's also for a good cause, with fifty percent of the proceeds going to charity."

She nodded then asked with chilly calmness, "What else?"

Damn, she was going to make him say it. The woman was ruthless with a cold streak that both frightened and saddened him. And if it weren't for the way she kept glancing at the picture on her desk, Clark would've missed the slither of vulnerability that rimmed her steel-coated shell.

"I want a second chance."

As blunt as it was, his statement didn't seem to faze Diana. She said nothing, didn't even feign shock or take offense. Hell, she didn't even spare an uncertain blink.

Opening a drawer to her right, Diana reached inside and pulled out a manila folder. She passed it to him.

"This is a contract for your services. Please have your agent or lawyer review it before you sign."

He opened the folder and pretended to scan the first page. The contract was a nonissue for him. Diana and their future was all that mattered.

Diana stood, her black dress severe in its coloring for the warm month of June, but it hugged every voluptuous curve. With model like grace, Diana slid from beyond her desk.

Clark stood. "So, I guess this means we have a deal?"

Diana picked up the folder and handed it to him. "For the book, yes."

"And the second chance?"

Once again, Clark found himself staring into Diana's blue, blue eyes. They no longer appeared so dark or so cold. And if he squinted just so, perhaps he could find the young woman who'd once brought poetry to his life.

"No."

On the softly spoken but resolute response, Diana soundlessly swept from the room.

Swallowing the bile of disappointment, but knowing it could've gone far worse, Clark turned to leave then stopped.

Glancing behind him to make sure Diana was truly gone and her secretary wasn't by the door, Clark picked up the golden-framed picture on Diana's desk.

He should've known.

Smiling and happy and very much in love, was a very pregnant Diana cradled from behind by Bruce Wayne, his large arms wrapping possessively around her and his unborn child.

And for the first time, Clark took in the office in which he stood. Wood paneling and dark blues were the dominant color scheme. Paintings of skyscrapers, ships, and bridges decorated the crème-colored walls. Framed and matted Harvard and MIT degree certificates were displayed on a wall below a picture of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

_Bruce's office._

Two years after taking over as CEO of Wayne Industries, Diana appeared on the cover of _Fortune 500,_ the same magazine that had once touted Bruce Wayne as the "Steve Jobs of mechanical engineering." Yet three years after Bruce's death and with a respectable and growing reputation in the business world, Diana had yet to let go of the shackles of the past, living in an unhealthy bubble of grief, anger, and pain.

Well, Diana was overdue for a bit of happiness. And while she may have abandoned her faith, Clark had found his.

Holding tight to the manila folder, his fragile connection to a woman gone cold but in need of the warmth of spirit, warmth of soul he could now provide, Clark swaggered from the office, prepared to be the superman he should've been ten years ago. _It's not too late._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	8. Chapter 7: Pride

**Chapter 7: Pride**

**Smallville, Kansas**

**Kent Residence**

Clark sopped up the last bit of gravy with the last bite of his mother's world famous buttermilk biscuit. He'd eaten two plates of mashed potatoes and gravy, sliced turkey, and green beans. Now he was eyeballing his mother's apple pie, homemade, of course. No frozen pies or canned apples for Martha Kent. The woman didn't even own a microwave. Nope, all she needed was her old but reliable Kenmore oven.

"Thanks, Ma, that was delicious." Clark patted his stomach. "I can't get food like this at the dining hall. Just burgers and fries and pizza."

"I thought you liked burgers and fries and pizza." His father stood, grabbed everyone's dirty plates and placed them in the sink.

"I do, Pa, but not all the time. And," he said, standing and shooing his father away from the sink, "I can take care of the dishes."

"And your laundry?"

Clark scratched his head and looked over his shoulder at his mother. She was a lovely woman, older than most mothers with a twenty-year old son. At sixty, Martha Kent's brownish-red hair held only the slightest streaks of gray, giving away the telltale signs of aging. Yet few wrinkles had dared approach, perhaps reticent to interfere with the timeless beauty that was Clark Kent's mother.

"Well, I . . . um, was hoping you would help me out. They go in one size and color and come out another. I think there's something wrong with the washing machines in the dorm."

His mother laughed, as he hoped she would. A soft, rich sound Clark knew so well, his father capable of bringing an easy laugh and blush to his wife of thirty-five years. Clark had learned early, that he, too, could make his mother smile, even laugh. It wasn't hard, not with a woman like Martha Kent.

Clark watched as his father, Jonathan, still tall with salt and pepper hair, walk to his wife, kiss her forehead, then sit beside her, covering her small hand with his large, rugged one. And how many times had Clark seen his father do exactly that over the years?

He turned away from them, and began to wash the few dishes and pots and pans his mother had used to prepare their meal.

Clark never heard his parents proclaim their love for each other in words. Not once. But he never doubted how absolutely they did indeed love each other. Perhaps, he thought, careful with the knife he was washing, when love ran long and deep words were no longer necessary. _Just a touch or a look would do? _That certainly seemed to be the case with his parents.

So what did it mean for a man to feel the overwhelming need to tell his woman how much he loved her? And Clark did. The urge to let Diana know, in no uncertain terms, that he loved her, was like a powerful drug. Every letter, every e-mail, every poem, every phone call Clark declared his love. Excessive, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. That couldn't possibly be normal.

"So, who is she, Clark?"

Clark rinsed the last plate, dried it, and put it away before facing his parents. They were still holding hands, but their eyes were no longer all for each other but firmly planted on their only child, the offspring of someone else's loins who couldn't be bothered with parenthood.

He shrugged, striving for a nonchalance that was as pathetic as it was a lie. "Just a girl I met last summer."

"Last summer?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"When you visited Kara in L.A?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you're still thinking of her, son, after all these months?"

Clark didn't immediately respond. Any answer he gave would out him either as an idiot or, in the words of his roommate, Mike, "a pussy whipped fool."

"Oh, did you see that look, Martha, our boy has inherited your ruby blush?"

"Men don't blush, Pa," Clark groused, irritated at the heat flooding him.

"Well, tell that to your rosy cheeks, son, not me." Jonathan laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners where crow's feet had settled in. His father pointed to the chair across from him. "Sit, my boy, and tell us all about her."

Grudgingly, Clark sat.

Martha and Jonathan Kent, God help him, were the kind of parents who actually talked . . . and listened, even when Clark wanted nothing more than to drag his sorry ass to the hayloft and bury himself in a good book or write, undisturbed, for hours. But, no, the Kents were active, in-their-kid's-life people who didn't use their age as an excuse to be passive or absent parents.

Clark didn't roll his eyes, the way he used to do when they would ask him about his day at school. Nor did he try to think of the quickest thing to say to get them off his back, another ploy he'd used with varying levels of effectiveness.

Clark had always been good at that, telling people just enough to satisfy them but having revealed little, protecting himself. But Martha and Jonathan had never meant him any harm. They'd given him a home, and eventually their last name. They were good, loving parents. Yet, somewhere in the back of his man-child brain, Clark knew they would leave him, too; finally see whatever it was in him that made his parents send him away. And he would be alone again—unwanted and unloved.

He thought of Diana and their last conversation.

"I told, my mother about us."

"I thought we agreed to wait."

"We did but she pays all my phone bills, Clark. Besides, I don't like lying to my mother."

He wasn't exactly a fan of lying himself, but he would lie like a politician if it meant protecting Kara's job and his relationship with Diana.

"So what did she say?"

"Nothing really."

"Nothing?" He doubted that. "A woman like Hippolyta Prince never had nothing to say, not that he'd ever met the woman, so maybe he wasn't being fair.

"Nothing of importance, Clark."

"So she did say something?"

"Of course, she's my mother."

"And you're a grown woman."

Diana snorted. "And you call your mother every Sunday after she returns from church, no matter what. Until you stop begging her to send you care packages, don't talk to me about being a grown-up."

Okay, she had him there, but must she sound so damn smug?

"Fine. Just tell me what your mother said about me. Is she upset with Kara?"

"No, she's not upset with Kara. I told you she wouldn't be. Kara is a great manager whom Mother respects. Besides the fact that she adores Kara as a person, Mother would never let her personal feelings influence business relationships."

"So Kara is a valuable employee?"

"Very. But she's more than that to us, Clark. Even before I met you, I thought of Kara as an aunt."

In truth, so did Clark. He didn't know how she'd done it, but Kara had tracked him down several years ago. She met with his parents first, seeking their permission to meet with him. After much convincing on his parents part, he decided to reopen the door to his past, not by much, just enough to admit a single person who had never disappointed or abandoned him. Kara Zor-El, ten years Clark's senior, was not to blame for what his parents had done. She'd been a child herself. Yet she'd come for him, sought him out when she could've gone on with her life as if he'd never existed.

"She would like to meet you," Diana said, in a voice that wasn't as upbeat as he knew she was trying to make it sound. "She asked me to extend an invitation to the Miami resort for spring break."

Clark nearly dropped the phone. He couldn't have heard her correctly.

"She what?"

"Spring break in Miami. Since its opening, Donna and I typically spend spring break there. And there's someone I want you to meet."

"Who?"

"An old friend of the family. His family used to spend part of their summer vacation at the L.A. resort. I guess you can say we grew up together. For a few years after his father's death, they stopped coming. But Mother and Mrs. Wayne were friends, and eventually Mother was able to convince her to start living again. Mrs. Wayne's first name is Martha, like your mother. Isn't that funny . . ."

Diana was babbling. She did this when she was nervous.

"Bruce is a great guy. I think you'd like him," she finished.

He'd missed something. He shook his head, it didn't matter.

"I don't think I can make it, Diana."

"Because of my mother?"

Clark wished it were only about her mother. No, it was about so much more than that.

"I'll visit you this summer in L.A., like I promised."

She said nothing.

"I'll meet Hippolyta then. It's only a few months away. We'll be together soon."

Silence, then, "It's fine, Clark, no worries. I shouldn't have imposed. I'm sure you already have plans with your family and friends. I shouldn't have assumed you were free to visit me on a whim. It's fine. Truly. Just fine."

And if she said "fine" one more time, he would bang the phone against his head. They both knew it wasn't fine. Diana clearly thought he was blowing her and her family off. That wasn't the case. If he could, he would book the flight today. But his life wasn't that simple, and she didn't understand. They lived different lives, were from different worlds.

"I have to go," he heard himself saying, instead of the words that needed to be spoken, the truth he refused to admit.

"Fine."

"Fine."

She hung up.

His parents stared at him, then his father, the nicest man he knew, wacked him on the back of his head.

"Ow, what was that for?"

"For not telling her the truth or asking us for help."

Clark rubbed the back of his head. Damn, the old man packed a wallop, good thing the Kents didn't believe in spankings or Clark's hide would've been red many a time.

"You can't be making but so much at that little part-time bookstore job of yours."

"It's enough."

"For what?"

"For the plane ticket to and from L.A. this summer and anything else I might need while I'm there. Kara paid my way last time and let me stay with her. I guess I'll stay with her again, but I won't have her buying me food and supporting me while I'm there."

And his parents were already offsetting the balance of his tuition. He'd earned a couple of scholarships, which paid most of his tuition, as well as room and board. As long as he maintained a 3.0 GPA, the scholarship would fund him the rest of his college career. But that still left several thousand dollars each school year, which his parents quietly paid.

"You don't have money to waste."

"No, no, we don't, Clark, but that doesn't mean we couldn't have helped. We aren't rich, that's for sure, but we've always managed to make do," his father said with old school pride.

Martha nodded, and patted her husband's hand.

"I suspect you've told Diana nothing of this," Martha said, not bothering to phrase it as a question. "Pride, Clark, is a double-edged sword you wield with deadly precision."

Clark knew his mother, well enough to know that she was speaking about more than his situation with Diana.

"The phone," his father said, "is where it's always been. Maybe you should give Diana a call and clear the air." Jonathan stood. "Martha, do you think that pie is cool enough to eat?"

"You get the plates and ice cream, I'll get the knife," she said, also standing.

His parents went about the task of filling plates with apple pie and vanilla ice cream, completely ignoring Clark as they moved around each other in a perfect dance they'd perfected long before he'd come along.

Clark ate in silence while his parents chatted. They were both right. Diana knew him not to be from a wealthy family, sure, but many students at KSU did travel to places like Miami and New York during spring break all the time. There was nothing unusual about that, so why wouldn't Diana think he could do the same?

Clark excused himself from the table and went to his room. The phone on his nightstand taunted him. He should call her and explain his finances. Diana would understand. She wasn't a snob. But no one understood how important it was for Clark to have her see him as a man with a promising future, not a broke farm boy with nothing but dreams to recommend him.

He would call her, and they would talk. He would apologize for being such a jerk, and assure Diana that he would see her in June, as promised. That would give him a few more months to save so he could buy some new shoes and clothes and afford to take his best girl out while he was in L.A. He would show her he was an asset not a liability.

Clark picked up the phone and dialed.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	9. Chapter 8: Trust

**Chapter 8: Trust**

**Los Angeles, California, Paradise Island Resort and Spa**

"Do you trust me?"

Too nervous to speak, Diana bit her lip and nodded her head. Of course, she trusted Clark. There was no man she trusted more. He'd swept into her life a year ago, a gorgeous tide of rippling male with ocean blue eyes and midnight hair. And Diana had fallen in love. As sure as she was that the sun would set and the moon would rise, Diana knew Clark Kent would forever be in her heart.

Clark closed and locked the bedroom door behind him saying, "You're sure we'll have the suite to ourselves?"

Oh, yes, Diana had made sure.

"Donna has a whole day planned of school shopping and won't allow Mother to return until she's managed to milk every drop of money and patience out of her."

Clark gave a short snort. "Women. That little sister of yours has more shoes, clothing, and unnecessary crap than any fourteen-year old needs or should have."

Well, Diana couldn't argue with that. Hippolyta bought them whatever they wanted, took them wherever they wanted to go, and just all around spoiled them. _Filling holes. _That was all it was, filling a void none of them talked about anymore. But no amount of sparkling jewelry, high-end clothing, or global trotting could ever replace what they'd lost.

"It makes Mother happy to make us happy."

He frowned at her, and she could already see the stream of his thoughts. The same as some others who looked at the life she and Donna led, assuming they were nothing more than careless, carefree rich kids. Money made life easier, that was undeniably true, but it didn't inculcate a person from pain, loss, or heartache.

And as much as she loved Clark, Diana knew, even though he'd never said, that he harbored some of those less than favorable opinions of wealthy people. She'd been harshly reminded of that when she'd invited him to Miami for spring break. In hindsight, she should've known what his reaction would be. Yet she was just so excited, so anxious to have him meet her mother and stop hiding and lying and pretending that her life hadn't been so irrevocably altered by this man.

She should've given the offer deeper reflection though. Should've considered his feelings not just her own. Then he had withdrawn, and she'd felt rejected and gotten angry.

The sun blazed a path of unchallenged glory over Clark's face. The man was so handsome, so decadently tempting in his raw sex appeal. Then he smiled at her, eyes twinkling as if he could read the flow of her sensual thoughts.

"I guess because you're used to getting whatever you want that you think you can have me as well."

The warm feeling building in Diana suddenly died a quick bitter death. The words had come out as a joke, but the sharp undercurrent of disapproval and criticism had her falling onto her bed, shock and hurt in her eyes.

She stared up at him, not quite knowing how to feel or respond. Did he truly think so lowly of her . . . or himself for that matter?

"It was just a joke, Diana. I didn't mean anything by it," he stated hastily, before plopping on the bed beside her.

"It didn't sound like a joke to me, Clark. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe we should talk about this more. Maybe . . ."

She didn't know. Diana had been so sure about today. Had taken every precaution to guarantee that they'd have uninterrupted time. And they'd already talked about this, over and over. Their second summer together was nearly at an end, and she felt ready to take their relationship to the next level.

Clark took hold of her hands and spoke, voice as soft and gentle as his touch. "Sometimes I can be a big, stupid jerk. When I look at you, when we're out together and I see how other men look at you, I begin to wonder what it is exactly that you see in me. I wonder if someday you'll wake up and ask yourself why you've wasted time on a guy from Kansas."

His words ran like a poison through her. But it was he who held the toxic inside himself, he who was too foolish and blind to see and appreciate his own worth. If she could see the obvious, why couldn't he?

Diana squeezed his hand. A wave of love and pity washed over her. He was an eagle too afraid or too naïve to realize his own majesty. For all that Hippolyta had spoiled her daughters, she'd raised them to trust and value themselves, even when the world did not . . . especially when the world did not.

Diana leaned in and kissed him, a barely-there kiss that reminded her of the first time he'd kissed her—tentative and shy.

"Gwendolyn Brooks, poet. Amelia Earhart, aviator. Barry Sanders, football player. Eugene W. Smith, photojournalist. Bob Dole, politician. Dennis Hopper, actor."

"What?"

"Notables from Kansas, Clark. The last I heard, Kansas wasn't exempt from producing great men and women."

He laughed, then pulled her into a hug—fierce and hard. "Only you would know so many notable people from Kansas. I bet you could go on."

Actually, she could. Her mind worked that way, absorbing all manner of information, from the important to the inane.

"Clark Kent, novelist."

His hug deepened.

"How can you have such faith in me . . . in us?"

"I just do. Why do you lack faith in yourself? In me?"

He relaxed his grip but didn't let her go. "I don't know. I-I've just . . . I need to work on a few things." Clark pulled back, then caught her chin with his hand and lifted. "You're unlike any girl I've ever met and I don't want to mess this up. My experience with the opposite sex can be summed up on two fingers."

That was a surprise, Diana having assumed that Clark's experience far exceeded her own. Not that he came off as a ladies man, but a guy as attractive and sweet as Clark was bound to have endless female admirers.

"A couple of high school girlfriends, Diana, that's it. And they were from Smallville, so I knew what to expect from them and what they expected of me."

"And you think I'm so different?" She didn't know if he'd meant it as an insult or as a compliment.

The hand holding her chin began a languorous caress from cheek to neck to nape. "Baby, you're as different from them as silk is from beer."

"I have no idea what that even means."

His hand slipped in her hair. Strong fingers delved deep and she moaned when he bent and kissed her.

And there was nothing tentative or shy about the way Clark Kent plundered her mouth. Nothing barely-there about his passionate claiming of lips and tongue.

Wrapping arms around his neck, Diana allowed Clark to take her even deeper into the kiss, holding him tightly and never wanting to let him go. No matter what, Diana vowed, she would never let him go. He was hers, and he, too, was different from all the other guys she'd known. Guys who'd thought money and fast cars was the way to a woman's heart and into her bed.

Diana avoided men like that. Her mother had warned her about men like that. But Hippolyta had never prepared her for the likes of one Clark Kent.

The kiss heated and Diana found herself straddling Clark's thighs, her body draped over him in the most delicious way.

And he was hard.

Everywhere.

And she wanted him. That was, after all, why they were alone in her bedroom, why Diana had bribed her sister to occupy their mother for the day.

Large hands slid under her dress, up her thigh and to her backside. He palmed, caressed, and then squeezed, sending even more heat coursing through her.

"Clark," she moaned against his throat.

"Yes, baby? You want something?"

Hell yes she wanted something, had wanted it for an embarrassingly long time.

"Y-you. I want you, Clark, you know that."

She sucked his neck and ground against the ever-growing bulge between his legs, letting him know exactly how much she wanted him.

"Ah, baby, do that again."

She did, moving her hips up and down, teasing them both, making her wetter and him harder.

Before she knew it, Clark had her on the bed and underneath him. He felt wonderful there, his massive body between her legs, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his mouth wet, hot, and hungry.

Slowly, and without words, they undressed until they both were bare.

Kneeling on the bed, Diana knew she was doing nothing short of gawking at her boyfriend. If she'd thought him handsome before, without his clothes, Clark was more god than man. Her eyes dropped to that part of him she'd dreamed about being inside her, and it, too, was magnificent. Long and large and fully erect, Diana couldn't help but reach out and touch it.

Sliding one then two then five fingers over and around his girth, Diana marveled at its firmness and how it twitched each time she traveled its length.

"Yes, baby, just like that. That feels so damn good. I've wanted to have you touch me there so many times, dreamed of you doing exactly that."

Diana smiled, having feared she'd be unable to please him. She'd read plenty, sure, and her girlfriends seemed to talk about sex all the time. But talking and reading about sex and the male body could hardly compare to what she was seeing and feeling at this moment.

Clark laid them both down, him beside her.

"Are you sure, Diana? I need you to be sure before we do this."

She was touched, but they'd talked about this. They'd waited, spent another summer together just to make sure that what they'd felt last summer wasn't a fluke or their young imaginations. But her feelings for Clark hadn't waned during their time apart. If anything, her love for him had only grown.

"If you're not sure, if you have any doubts about giving me your virginity tell me now. I promise I won't be mad." He smiled down at her then patted her bottom. "I'll probably need a cold shower but I won't be mad."

Her once high school sweetheart, Tom Tresser, had said the same thing, but his tune quickly changed when Diana couldn't bring herself to take that last step with him. She'd cared about him but it wasn't enough. He'd eventually left her, the same way her . . .

"I'm sure. I want this . . . want you."

"I won't leave you if we don't. I promise; I'll never leave you."

His words went straight to her heart. How could he possibly know how much they meant to her, how much she needed to hear them, believe them to be true?

"But you're so hot, Diana. I won't pretend I wouldn't be disappointed. I'm so damn hard for you, baby. I want nothing more than to bury myself in you and make us both come."

Diana gulped at the thought. She wanted that, too.

"I'll make it so good for you, baby. So. Good."

She didn't doubt that.

"Just say the word."

His insecure eyes belied his confident words. And that was where the truth of the man lived, in his deep-set ocean blue eyes.

"Yes."

"Yes?" And there was his boyish smile—tender and vulnerable. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

"I know you won't. I trust you."

"And I won't hurt you," she assured.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he slinked down her body, kissing and licking and sucking.

God, the man's mouth was liquid fire, scorching every inch of her.

He settled between her thighs, fingers combing through the most intimate part of her. Diana closed her eyes, unable to watch what he was doing to her. But the lack of visual made it no less erotic, no less intoxicating.

"_Yes_, that feel so good," she moaned, Clark's fingers then mouth and tongue going on a grand tour of her womanly essence. "Sooo good. Don't stop. Yes. There."

Hands fisted in sheets and back arched, Diana didn't know what to do with herself. Her body seemed to be doing its own thing, twisting and throbbing and begging for a release she'd never known.

Holding her hips down, Clark continued his oral assault, licking and sucking until he had her writhing in pleasure, spasms coming in ragged, crooning swells that went on and on. And still he held her, still he pleased her, keeping her at the apex of her orgasm and creating flood after flood of explosions in her body, taking her from one and straight into another. And another. And another.

By the time she came crashing back to earth and located her breath and sanity, Clark had already slipped a condom on and was kneeling between her parted legs. His eyes and long pause gave her one last chance to change her mind.

She said nothing, just a trusting smile and a nod of her frazzled head.

Then he made them one. Their joined bodies transcended artificial boundaries and found mutual pleasure, mutual desire, and mutual love.

"I love you," Clark croaked as he began to move within her. "I'll never love anyone as much as I love you. Thank you for trusting me."

"I love you, too." And she wanted to thank him for giving her his trust as well, but her tongue stilled, because, in truth, Diana didn't know if he really did. She wasn't sure if Clark trusted her not to hurt him, if he'd given himself as fully to her as she was now giving herself to him.

But this was no time for thinking. Diana could think later. No, now was for feeling and what she felt with Clark inside of her was—_like a real woman_.

Glorious and free and loved. So very much loved.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	10. Chapter 9: Just Friends

**Chapter 9: Just Friends**

**Miami, Florida, Paradise Island Resort and Spa**

Bruce poured himself his third—or was it his fifth?—glass of wine. The drink was chilled perfectly and tasted like any good bottle of 1995 Charles Heidsieck "Blanc des Millénaires" should. The saline quality of the wine made him want to gulp the wine, while the deep mineral flavors and filigreed mousse made him want to roll it around on his tongue a little more. But he wasn't in the mood for savoring, so he threw his head back and drank the contents of the crystal flute in one long inhale.

The wine, while delicious, wouldn't get him drunk. At least not right away, not that his mother would approve of him getting drunk today, or any other, if he were being honest with himself.

He reached for the bottle again, deciding he probably didn't really need his liver.

"I thought we talked about this last night."

Bruce ignored the woman who thought to be his conscience and refilled his glass. As if in challenge, he lifted his eyes to her then the glass to his mouth. And as expected, aqua blue eyes glared down at him from a haughty height of six feet, most of which were glistening wet legs.

He winked then gave her his best naughty boy smile before downing the yellow gold liquid.

"You're such a brat," she laughed.

"I think that's usually my line, sweetheart."

Those blue eyes of hers narrowed, the way they always did when he taunted her. And Bruce so loved to taunt Diana. She was the only female he knew—besides his mother and Hippolyta—who would call him on his bullshit.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Playboy Extraordinaire Bruce Wayne would let a woman get under his skin."

"Have you forgotten, Diana, that's exactly where I like my women? Under me."

She rolled her eyes, dismissing him in the same fashion she did when they'd met at eight and he'd asked her how she could be a prince when she was a girl.

"You're hiding, Bruce. I thought we talked about this last night."

He sat the glass and bottle down on the low table to his right. By the time he refocused on Diana, she was sitting in the chaise lounge beside his own.

"You can't hide out in this cabana forever. It's your mother's fortieth birthday and I'm sure she'd like to not have her son brooding all day and ruining everyone's fun."

Bruce looked out from the shaded and air-conditioned cabana and to all the people laughing and frolicking in and around the pool. Everyone was having a good time. And why shouldn't they? It was a beautiful July day in Miami. Hippolyta had closed down the Artemis wing of the resort for this celebration. She'd hired a local Cuban band, which were playing on the makeshift stage not far from the pool. The food was, as always, delicious, and the champagne and wine abounded. What was there not to enjoy about this day?

"This would be Mom's seventh fortieth birthday."

Diana laughed. "Yes, I know." She reached for him, interlacing her fingers with his. "I hate to see you so out of sorts, Bruce."

She'd held his hand last night as well. Diana had found him sitting in a gazebo, drunker than he'd ever been. He was loud and stupid and said things he probably shouldn't have. Told her things he'd never shared with another. But that had always been their way. Theirs was a friendship that had spanned thirteen years surviving and growing through pain that only came from losing a parent, a father.

He squeezed her hand, grateful she knew him well enough to know that he didn't really want to be alone but that he also wouldn't seek anyone's comfort.

"It's her loss, Bruce."

"So you said last night."

"No, I think I said that Selina Kyle wasn't worthy of you."

Bruce twisted in his lounger and faced Diana. "True, but you also called her a bitch."

And there it was, the blush he was striving for, the blush he knew so well.

"You would remember that."

"Oh, I remember everything. I think you also threw around the words 'whore' and 'slut' a few times as well."

Diana was downright red now. She was always such a lady, so genteel until someone or something pissed her the hell off. Then she was all fire and brimstone, ready to kick ass and take names. He loved that about her, loved that she became so upset on his behalf. She was his best friend and he was losing her to some would-be novelist from nowhere Smallville.

"She cheated on you, what else did you expect me to call her?"

Yeah, he knew very well what Selina had done. Worse, he'd caught her with the guy. Sometimes a surprise visit to a woman's apartment doesn't always end the way one might expect it to. No, Bruce was the one who'd been surprised that day. He'd beaten the shit out of the guy, and the only thing that had stopped him from killing the asshole was when Selina had thrown herself between them, pleading, regret-filled tears in her eyes. Knuckles bruised and bloody, he'd left. And hadn't told anyone until Diana had walked into his gazebo last night.

He kissed her hand. "Why can't I fall for a nice girl like you, Diana?"

"Because you don't want a nice girl like me. You never have."

No, he hadn't. So what did that say about him? Bruce looked at Diana, really took her in. She was lovely, beautiful in fact. She'd blossomed right before his eyes, yet it had taken him until last night to see Diana for the woman she had grown into. And what he now saw made him ache for lost time and lost opportunity. Diana Prince was everything he'd ever wanted and everything he'd run away from.

But it was time for Bruce Wayne to grow up. Time for him to stop cruising through life like the spoiled rich kid he was. Time for him to step-up and be the man his father wanted him to become. The kind of man his mother would be proud of, the kind of man that someone like Diana would consider settling down with. Not that he was ready for marriage, he wasn't. But it would be nice to have a woman who loved and trusted him, a woman he could love and trust in return.

"What if I did?"

"What if you did what?"

Bruce sat up, thinking himself the biggest fool for not doing this earlier. "What if I wanted a nice girl like you, Diana?"

Her eyes twinkled with mischief and he knew she misunderstood him. "There are plenty of nice girls, Bruce, but don't think I'll introduce you to any of my friends. I know you too well."

"That's my point. You're the only one who knows me. The only woman I tell my secrets to."

"And what a burden you are," she joked.

"I'm serious, Diana."

"About what? What in the world are you talking about?"

What was he talking about? Did he really want to cross this bridge? Dare he risk their friendship over the crazy idea that he and Diana could be much more to each other?

Bruce glanced at the pool, and saw him. _Clark Kent. _He held Donna on his shoulders, and the teen squealed with laughter each time she returned the ball over the water polo net.

"What's up with all those muscles?" he said, turning back to Diana, who was also eyeing Clark. "Is he on some kind of Kansas steroids or something?"

"Be nice, Bruce."

"I am, but that boyfriend of yours is huge. I guess they breed them big in the Midwest."

"I said, be nice."

"No need to get all snippy, Diana, I'm just saying."

Bruce watched as Diana's eyes traveled back to the pool and that rippling hulk of a guy she called her boyfriend. Bruce wasn't small by any measure, but the farm boy was built like Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson. No wonder Diana had fallen for the hick.

For several minutes, Bruce watched Diana watch Clark, his envy of the guy growing by the second. Selina had never looked at him like that, as if he was her whole world. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn't have strayed. Maybe if he'd talked to her, opened up to her the way he did with Diana, perhaps they would've been closer and she would've loved him enough to be faithful.

Maybe.

Perhaps.

"I've been accepted into Harvard Business School."

Diana jumped up, flung herself into his arms, and hugged him. They'd hugged many times before, but dear god, the woman wore only a bikini and felt like heaven and sex. No wonder Clark had applied to Harvard's Creative Writing Program. Diana had decided to stay at Harvard for her graduate studies and the farm boy obviously sensed that if he didn't step up his game and solidify things with Diana, he might just fall off her rising star.

Bruce returned the embrace, doing his best not to notice how right she felt in his arms, how good she smelled, and how much he really wanted to kiss her.

Too soon, or perhaps just in time, she let him go. Now they sat side-by-side on his lounger, bare legs touching.

"Now I'll get to see you on more than holidays and vacations."

"I doubt you'll have time for an old friend."

She huffed. "Don't start that again. Clark does not take up all of my time."

"So where were you coming from last night when you stumbled upon me in the gazebo?"

Diana eyes turned sheepish but she answered with her usual honesty. "From Clark's room."

He'd known that. She'd hugged him last night, too, and even through the booze, he could smell him on her, smell what they'd been doing. An irrational jealousy had overtaken him, more than what he'd felt when he caught Selina. The sensation had disturbed Bruce. Worse, it had yet to abate.

"Maybe I should call him out for a duel for claiming your virtue without benefit of marriage."

She laughed, and he fell just a bit deeper into her innocently sensual web.

"And how many women's virtues have you claimed, Bruce?"

_Too many. But only one I ever wished I had._

"I'm turning over a new leaf."

"Are you?"

"You sound doubtful."

Diana's good-humor faded and she reached for him again. Her hand wiped a lock of dark hair from his eyes. "I never doubt you, Bruce. You're a man capable of accomplishing whatever you set your mind to. You want people to believe you're a shallow man, incapable of filling your father's shoes."

"Aren't I?"

She shook her head. "You're wholly capable of surpassing Thomas Wayne. And that frightens you, and that fear is why you waste your talent and intelligence on drink, cars, and women."

Bruce couldn't speak, couldn't form words beyond the lump in his throat. Diana, sweet, innocent, too-perceptive Diana held his soul in her delicate hands. No wonder he'd never entertained the idea of becoming romantically involved with her, the woman would take all of him, make him hers in every conceivable way. There simply was no hiding from a woman whose heart was like a million stars—radiant, unique, and powerful.

No mask.

No shadows.

No cave.

Not with Diana.

Hand on his cheek; she leaned in.

Closer.

Closer.

Bruce imagined her lips on his. He already knew her smell, her feel, now he wanted to know her taste. _Just a little closer._

She kissed him.

On his cheek. Just like a friend.

_Because we are and nothing more._

"I love you, Bruce."

_As a friend._

"I know, Diana. I love you, too."

_As a friend, but it could be so much more._

"_Diana."_

Diana gave a little jump. So did Bruce. Neither had heard someone enter the cabana.

She turned around at the same time Bruce looked over her shoulder. Clark stood there, in all his Kansas stud glory, hair and body wet from the pool, blue eyes glinting with barely-suppressed jealousy. And Bruce wondered if he'd looked the same way when he'd found Selina with her fitness instructor.

Bruce stood, just in case the big man wanted to take a swing at him. He wouldn't blame him if he did. He and Diana had to have made one hell of a sight. It was perfectly innocent—at least on her part—but Clark was no fool, nor would he appreciate how much Bruce clearly enjoyed Diana's attentions.

"What's wrong?" Diana asked of Clark, standing and going to him. "Why did you call my name like that? Did something happen to Donna? I saw you two in the water a few minutes ago."

"No, no," Clark said, finally focusing on his girlfriend instead of shooting daggers at Bruce, "nothing like that, baby. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Clark swept a proprietary glance over Diana. "I was just looking for you, is all."

"Well, you've found me. Bruce and I were just talking."

"Yeah, I noticed that."

Clark looked at him then so Bruce smiled and said, "Diana and I do that a lot. Once I start Harvard in the fall we'll have even more time to spend together and talk."

Clark's jaw began to work in the most self-satisfying way. Bruce knew he shouldn't bother baiting the guy. Clark Kent was perfect for Diana, an old-fashioned boy scout who would treat her like the princess she was. Like the devoted hound he clearly was, Clark would remain faithful to Diana. And if he didn't, Bruce would make him very, very sorry.

But today, right now, Bruce found himself jealous of a farm boy from Kansas who didn't know the difference between caviar and pate.

"Diana. Diana."

They all turned to see Hippolyta, elegant in a white, silk dress walk toward them.

"There you are, Diana. I've been looking for you."

"What is it that you need, Mother?"

"Your sister . . ." Hippolyta began.

The women walked off.

Bruce didn't hear the rest, nor did he wish to. Any sentence that began that way was never good. Donna, when she put her mind to it, could be quite the little menace. He loved her dearly, but thanked god she wasn't his younger sister.

He met Clark's eyes. "Ah, you're still here. I thought you would be following after Diana. That's what you do right? Follow after her?"

The big man ignored him, didn't even flinch at Bruce's deliberate insult. Perhaps there was more to the hulking farm boy than met the eye.

Clark stepped closer, his blue eyes as cold as Selina's cheating heart.

"Don't go fishing in another man's pond," Clark said in a tone that told him that he was willing to finish whatever Bruce wanted to start. And Bruce was almost annoyed and reckless enough to let this play out. But he wasn't drunk nor did he want to ruin his mother's birthday party by getting into a fight.

"Is that some kind of regional saying, Kent? Just so you know, I don't speak Smallville."

"Just fair warning, Wayne."

"No need, Kent, no need. I may be a pig at times, but I'm not that type of guy. And Diana is far too special to play with."

"The fact that you know and respect that about her bothers me even more."

"Maybe it should. But I'll do nothing about my interest in her. And Diana is as loyal as they come; she'll never be unfaithful to you."

"I know."

"So you know what that means?" Bruce walked back to his lounger and sat. Then he reclined and thought about whether he should polish off the last bit of wine in the bottle.

"Yes, I know what it means," Clark said, just when Bruce discovered that the wine bottle was regrettably empty. "It means that your only chance of having Diana is if I fuck things up."

"And they say that poetry is dead. You do have a way with words Mr. Kent. Perhaps I'll buy your first novel after all."

"Jerk."

"Pussy."

With that, the iceberg between them shattered, as did they, in a fit of wry laughter.

Clark claimed the lounger where Diana had sat earlier, his large frame barely able to fit.

"We best try to get along, Kent, or Diana will have both our asses for lunch."

"Yeah, I noticed she has a bit of a temper."

Bruce grunted. "Clark, my boy, I could tell you horror stories about our sweet Diana."

Clark's eyebrows rose. "Our?"

"Just a figure of speech. You know, a Gotham saying, kind of like 'Up, up and away.'"

"That doesn't make any sense. You just made that up."

"Perhaps."

"She's not 'ours'. She's mine."

"For now."

"Forever."

"If you say so."

"I do. Now shut the hell up and tell me one of the stories."

Bruce thought for a minute then said, "When Diana and I were ten she . . ."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	11. Chapter 10: Happiness Deferred

**Chapter 10: Happiness Deferred**

**Part 1**

**Cambridge, Massachusetts, Kent and Prince Residence**

_God, this is good. She feels good; too damn good. So close. So. Close._

"Are you ready, baby?" Clark's low, raspy voice asked on a husky moan. The only other sounds in the room were that of flesh slapping against flesh and deep, heavy breathing.

His.

Hers.

"Are you ready, Diana?" he asked again, looking up and at the woman he loved. _Please, let her be ready this time._

But Diana didn't answer him. Clark wasn't even sure if she'd heard him. Her eyes were closed, head tilted back, and hands gripped the sheets at her side. And, damn, she was exquisite when she was in the throes of passion, hair wild, chest heaving, mouth open on a hungry, sensual moan.

And she rode him, not hard and unforgiving, but slow, deliberate and utterly erotic. Diana never rushed their lovemaking. In fact, she took great care to make sure they were both satisfied.

Clark spared a quick glance toward the nightstand and at Diana's gold-and-silver alarm clock. Fifty-five minutes. They'd been at this nearly an hour. He didn't think he'd last another five minutes. Hell, two minutes if Diana swiveled her hips like that again, causing his own hips to involuntarily lift off the bed, slamming into her with a force that brought them both pleasure. _Damn her._

She opened her eyes then, peered down at him and—curse her wicked Grecian soul—smiled before swiveling her hips again.

Harder.

Faster.

Wetter.

He was going to explode and Diana still hadn't come yet. Clark cursed his girlfriend again, this time her wretched female stamina. If he didn't know any better, Clark would've sworn that Diana was a demigoddess, part human, part goddess. Because, damn if he'd ever been with a woman who could go as long as they normally did without begging for him to come and "come now."

And, hell, almost two years after having moved in together, they still made love as long and hard as they did their first time together. Admittedly, Clark had a store of pent-up sexual energy when he and Diana finally consummated their relationship. And, yeah, going an hour or more was no problem. Doing it more than once a day was also no problem. Hell, claiming her a second time on the heels of the first was also no big deal. Clark had sperm and hardness to spare. It had, after all, been a long while since he'd last been with a woman. And once he'd met Diana, no other woman would do.

Diana leaned down and over him. Slowly licked the shell of his ear before whispering, "I'm ready, Clark." He almost shouted "Thank God," but flipped her onto her back instead.

With a surprised yelp, Diana quickly adjusted to the change in power positions. But not before he quickly took advantage of her slight disorientation and plunged deep, smiling when a contented breath left Diana followed by a mumbled curse.

Oh, yeah, Clark loved he could do this to Diana; make her forget all good manners and Hippolyta's well-bred training. Besides, there was no room for such nonsense in their bed, not when they could put the space to much better use.

He was, Diana having set his bull free with her words of "I'm ready." Yes, and so was he, the leash gone, only open plains before him. Snorting at the freedom given him, Clark barreled forward.

Diana's legs wrapped around his swiftly moving hips, arms held tight to taut shoulders, mouth captured his lips. And they were together in this, holding each other inexplicably tight, touching on every plane possible. Limbs and lips were twined, taking and giving pleasure, sweaty sinews and burning need.

Then they exploded, in unison and loud. Thunderclaps of release shot through Clark, his organ seeming to expand and lengthen, reaching farther into Diana, claiming her as deeply as possible. As deep and as much as she could allow, her own banks overflowing, pulling him along with the strong, gripping tide of release.

Ragged breathing. Him. Her.

Boneless limbs. Him. Her.

Satiated bodies. Him. Her.

Life couldn't get better than this, Clark thought the next morning as he sat on their bed waiting for Diana to finish with her shower.

Or could it?

He walked to his dresser and opened the first drawer. Moving aside boxers and undershirts, Clark found what he was looking for. _Right where I left it._ He palmed the item before quickly sliding it into his pants pocket when he heard the shower cut off.

A moment later, Diana exited the master bathroom, her hair piled on top of her head. Releasing it, shiny, black hair fell in elliptical waves over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Clark loved her hair, especially when she wore it down, like she did most days.

"Are you sure you want to go out with Ollie and his latest brain-dead blonde?" Clark asked.

Diana sat on the bed and began to brush out her hair, the black silk robe she wore too short and too sexy to be anything more than a way to torture a man.

"Bruce says she's not like the others."

"So Bruce has met the new one?" Clark sat beside Diana, took the brush from her hand and took over the job of detangling the long tresses. This was something else he loved about living with Diana. She didn't mind all his little quirks, like washing and brushing her hair or cooking for them instead of going out, or just having her sit and listen to one of his short stories.

"Dinah. Her name is Dinah something."

Clark focused on a particularly tangled clump of hair until he'd smoothed it out.

"You're so good at that," she sighed, then leaned her head on his shoulder. "What can I say or do to get you to do this for me every morning?"

Clark couldn't have written a better opening. Taking a deep breath, Clark willed his pounding heart to slow down and let him do this before he lost his nerve.

"You can say 'yes'."

"To what, honey?"

Clark eased himself from under Diana's half-slumped body and down to the carpeted floor in front of her and between her long, toned legs.

She sat up straight. "What are you doing? Why are you on the floor?" She thought for a second, then she smiled at him, and Clark knew what she was thinking even before Diana said, "We don't have time for that, Clark. Wish we did, but, as it is, we'll already be a few minutes late to brunch with Dinah and Ollie."

Clark smiled at that, for he and Diana were often late to gatherings with friends. And, to make matters worse, everyone knew exactly why they were perpetually tardy, Ollie always quick with a "Stop being an overachiever, Clark, and embrace the power of the quickie."

"Not that, Diana."

"Then what? Why do you suddenly look so serious?" She ruffled his hair, undoing what had taken him ten minutes to get just so.

He even loved that about her, although it drove him crazy. Diana Prince had a bad of habit of deliberately pushing his OCD buttons. According to her, he needed to "relax" and not take things so "seriously".

"You're itchin' for a spankin' aren't you?"

The lascivious grin she gave him went straight to his groin, forcing Clark to close his eyes, think of anything other than the fact that they'd played that game only two nights ago, and that his sweet Diana was so far from the virgin girl he'd claimed nearly five years ago.

Taking one of her warm hands, Clark placed it over his chest, where his heart was. "I love you Diana Prince."

She sobered.

"I think I've loved you since the first day we met. I even remember what you wore—red, white, and blue spandex. You were in some fitness class. When I walked by I saw you through the glass wall. I was mesmerized, couldn't take my eyes off you. You were so beautiful and elegant, even while sweating. Then you happened to glance my way . . . and you smiled. You smiled as if I was someone special, someone worth knowing."

"You were worth knowing, Clark. You _are_ worth knowing. Always have been, always will be."

_Such faith._ Diana was always full of such faith.

He continued to hold her hand, letting her feel how much his heart beat for her, only ever for her.

"You," he began, reciting a poem he'd written especially for her, especially for this occasion, "are my moon and stars. When my path is dark and cloudy or simply unknown, you light my way, guide my movements, and take away my fear. You are my sun and strength, my heart and lungs, my soul and purpose." Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, Clark pulled out the tiny, black velvet box. "Will you also be my wife, Diana? Will you marry me?"

Clark had thought he'd seen Diana in every state possible. Happy. Tired. Frustrated. Angry. Sated. But he'd never seen her look at him in quite the way she was now.

And she was so still. And quiet.

He released her hand so he could open the box. He'd scrimped and saved for two years. When he had been accepted to Harvard for graduate school, Clark knew then that he wanted to marry Diana. But he had little to offer her. Hell, he didn't have much more now. But he'd just completed his last assignment for his Masters of Fine Arts. In less than a month's time, he'd have a MFA and would be on his way to becoming the novelist he'd always dreamed of. Now, if only he could convince his lady to take a chance on him.

Diana stared at him. Not the five grand Princess-cut yellow gold engagement ring he'd brought her. Then she did something he'd never seen her do.

She began to cry.

Diana simply fell into his lap and wept.

Clark held her, fighting back his own tears. For once, he understood what people meant by tears of joy. And there was no doubt that Diana's tears were one of joy.

"May I take your tears as a 'yes'?"

A fervent shake of her head followed more tears, then ardent kisses.

"Yes. Yes. Yes," Diana hiccupped through sobs. "Yes, I'll marry you Clark Kent."

And now he did cry. How could he not? He'd been given the best gift of all. And it was all due to the generosity of the Themyscira Foundation. Without that foundation, Clark wouldn't have been able to afford to attend Harvard and move to Cambridge with Diana. He would forever be grateful.

It was a private foundation, quietly doling out scholarships to students of the arts. His favorite English college professor had applied on Clark's behalf, sending in one of his short stories. To Clark's amazement, the head of the foundation thought his writing showed great potential and wanted to fund his continued education. Unable to find what he was looking for on the Themyscira Foundation website, two weeks ago, Clark had contacted his former English professor in hopes that he could help him learn the name of the person who'd approved his scholarship application. He wanted to send a personal thanks to the man and let him know that his money was well spent and that Clark was due to graduate in three weeks.

Clark lifted himself and Diana off of the floor and onto their bed.

"May I place this ring on your finger now?" Hiding the thing in his drawer the last three months had nearly undid him. He'd contemplated how he'd propose and had come up with a million different ideas, discarding each one as inadequate. As of last night, he'd concluded that after graduation would be the best time to pop the question. But when he'd lain awake this morning watching Diana sleep, Clark had known. He didn't want to wait a day longer to make her his.

Finally.

Completely.

Always and forever.

Wiping the last remnants of her tears away, Diana handed Clark her trembling hand.

He first kissed it, and then slipped the ring from the box and onto her long, slim finger.

"Perfect. Just perfect, Diana. Thank you."

She laughed. "You're the one who's perfect, Clark, and this ring is nothing short of exquisite." She hugged him, settling once again on his lap. "Thank you, Clark, for loving me, for trusting me, and for wanting to make me your wife and life partner."

_Life partner._ He liked the sound of that.

And they would have stayed like that, holding each other and simply glorying in their love and future as a happily married couple. But life, as it so often does, has a bad habit of intruding at the most inopportune of times.

The phone rang.

Clark held Diana tighter, unwilling to lose this moment. "Let it ring, baby, the machine will get it."

Diana didn't disagree. Instead, she tunneled her hands into his hair and drew him in for a long, sensuous kiss, the type of kiss that was a prelude to them being late for brunch with Ollie and Dinah.

It didn't matter. Ollie would understand.

The phone rang again. And again. And again.

After the sixth ring, the answering machine picked up.

"You've reached," Clark's recorded voice began, "the Kent-Prince residence. They are unable to take your call at the moment. If you would please leave your name, number, and a brief message, they will be sure to get back with you."

Beep_._

"Hello, Clark. Clark. Are you there? This is ma? If you are . . ."

His mother sounded frazzled. Martha Kent was never frazzled and she also never called at eleven o'clock on a Sunday when she should've been at church.

Clark leapt across the bed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand.

"Hey, hey, Ma. Don't hang up, I'm here."

"Oh, thank god, honey. I thought I would have to leave a message." She sounded worse now that he had the phone to his ear, breathy and weary.

"What's wrong, Ma?" Because, no, there was no doubt something was wrong.

Diana was now next to him, one reassuring hand on his thigh, her eyes registering the same concern he was sure was in his own.

"It's your father, Clark."

"What about Pa?"

"He's had a heart attack. I'm at the hospital now, waiting for the doctor to let me know what's going on."

"Heart attack?" he said, looking to Diana as if she had the power to confirm or deny his mother's words.

Then, like earlier with Diana, his mother started to cry. But, unlike Diana, her tears had nothing to do with joy and everything to do with fear and unspeakable grief.

Clark felt impotent, unable to help or hold his mother. She was alone in the hospital surrounded by strangers. And where was he? Thousands of miles away, a paltry phone her only lifeline.

"I'll be on the next flight out, Ma. I'll be there as soon as I can."

She said nothing.

Clark stood, his pulse thumping out an irreconcilable beat. This couldn't be happening, not to Jonathan Kent. The man was like a rock, a boulder of strength and endurance.

"Did you hear me, Ma? I'll be there. You won't be alone, I'll be there."

Sniffles then, "Come as soon as you can, honey. Please, hurry."

"I will, I'll—" The phone clicked. His mother was gone, and Clark couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

He had no idea how long he stood there, staring down at the phone, imagining his mother alone in the hospital and his father . . .

"Your flight leaves in three hours."

Eyes gone watery turned to Diana. She was dressed in jeans and a Harvard T-shirt, not her usual Sunday fare.

"What?"

"I've taken care of your flight. The plane leaves in three hours." She shoved her cell phone in her front pants pocket.

Stunned, Clark could only watch as Diana moved swiftly to their closet, pulled out a black duffel bag and started filling it with clothing and toiletries. Before he knew it, she had him strapped into her white Mercedes Benz and was heading for Boston Logan International airport.

The cars, people, and buildings were like an inconsequential blur of colors and shapes.

Then he was at the boarding gate, Diana's face full of worry and love.

"Call me when you land."

"I will."

"Call me as soon as you know what's going on with your father."

"I will."

As much as he wanted to go, needed to be with his mother, Clark couldn't bring himself to turn away from Diana and get onto the plane. A dark shadow billowed around her, threatening to tear her away from him. It loomed far too near, a morbid, familiar face staring back at him. _My face._

"Come with me. I need you, baby, come with me."

The last boarding call sounded.

He had to go.

"I'll settle our affairs here first then I'll fly out."

"Promise me."

"I promise, Clark, now get on the plane before it leaves without you."

Grabbing her with too much force, Clark hugged his fiancée, and whispered, "I love you. I'll probably get there and find Pa sitting up and having a good ole laugh at our expense. Then I'll be the one coming home to you."

"Promise."

"I promise. I'll never leave you."

He let her go, and tried to ignore the menacing face that felt too much like death and doom that left Diana's side and followed him. With a chill that burrowed straight to his heart, Clark walked away from Diana and boarded the plane.

**Part 2**

**Two Months Later**

**Smallville, Kansas, Kent Farm**

Clark lay on his bed, staring up at the plain, beige ceiling of his childhood room. He'd used to lay awake when he was a boy and dreamed about what he would do when he was finally old enough to leave the farm and see the world. In his heart of hearts though, Clark Kent knew no matter how far from home he traveled, he would, sooner or later, end up right back where he'd started. Such was his lot in life. He'd been a fool to ever believe otherwise. To believe that a child left by his own parents could ever be more than a pathetic joke on the butt of other people's lives.

Knock. Knock.

Clark closed his eyes, hoping the person on the other side of the door would go away. It had been two months since his father had passed away, yet people were still paying their condolences. Clark was grateful that so many locals cared about the Kents, he truly was. But their sincere sympathy and heartfelt sentiments were driving him beyond reason. Couldn't they see, didn't they know that with every kind word and story of remembrance that they were doing more harm than good.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Resigned to his fate, Clark sat up in bed and said, "Come in."

The door opened and his jaw dropped. _Diana._

Like the Diana from too many of his dreams, she walked into the room and closed the door behind her.

Neither spoke, just stared blankly at each other. He hadn't seen her since the Boston airport. Now here she was, staring at him with none of the warmth he'd last seen in her eyes when he'd glanced over his shoulder and waved goodbye, praying that his father would be okay and that he would return to her soon.

But her lack of warmth didn't faze him, he had none for her either.

He stood. "What are you doing here?"

"I was wondering the same of you? Why are you still here, Clark? Why have you not returned home? Why have you stopped returning my phone calls?"

With each question her nostrils flared that much more, her voice rose that much higher. She wouldn't scream at him, Clark knew. No, Diana was far too self-possessed to do anything so common as yelling.

"I told you I needed time to think."

"Think about what?" She ran one frustrated hand through her wavy hair before narrowing her eyes at him. "For goodness sake, Clark, it's been two damn months. What in the hell is going on with you?"

"_My father died_, Diana, that's what. But perhaps being the spoiled princess that you are, you don't understand something as basic as grief."

She stared at him as if he'd slapped her. He didn't care. This conversation was well overdue.

"I left," he snarled. "I left two years ago and never came back. I left this farm to my aging parents to take care of and it killed my father."

"That wasn't your fault, Clark."

"Of course it was my fault. I was so busy running after you, trying to be the man you wanted me to be that I forgot who I was."

"I never asked you to be anyone other than yourself. Why are you acting like this? Talking to me as if you hate me?"

Tears began to well in her eyes, and the sight nearly broke his resolve. The old Clark would've gone to Diana, pulled her into his arms, and begged her for forgiveness. But he wasn't that meek Clark anymore. He was tired of being played by the Princes and Waynes of the world. He wasn't like them, had never been like them. For a time he'd fooled himself into thinking that birth and money didn't matter. He'd been wrong.

"I don't hate you, Diana. I've just gone through an awakening. You see, since meeting you, I've been asleep, or maybe in a beautiful fog of the rich and famous. In that dream world of mine, I met and fell in love with a princess who kissed a frog and turned him into a prince."

Diana stared at him, blue eyes glistening with tears that had yet to fall, face taut with a mixture of anger and pain.

"When I looked in the mirror I saw the prince you made me feel that I was. Tell me, Diana, when you look at me, do you see the prince or the frog I've always been?"

"You're not making any sense. I have always seen _you_, Clark. The man I love. The man I've waited two months to return to me, even when it became painfully obvious that you had abandoned me . . . turned your back on all you'd promised. You wouldn't even let me attend your father's funeral."

She did cry then, silent tears she allowed to flow freely down her face.

"I knew you were hurting. I only wanted to be there for you, to give you a shoulder to lean on. But you wouldn't accept even that." She finally wiped at her tears. "I have no idea what happened to us. Nothing you've said so far makes any sense to me."

"Well, baby," he said with the acid he'd felt since learning the truth, "let me clue you in. I know the truth about the scholarship."

"What scholarship?"

Clark crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. "For once, Diana, tell me the truth."

Blue eyes sparked with indignation. "I have _never_ lied to you. Never. Not once."

Her vehemence was so believable, and if he didn't know better, Clark would actually believe her. But he did know better and he didn't believe her. Not. A. Single. Word.

"The Themyscira Foundation scholarship, Diana. I know the truth. I know all about you and your mother."

His college professor had tracked down the information, texting him the name and email of the person responsible for funding his graduate education.

"What in the world does my mother have to do with this?"

"She has everything to do with this, Diana, and well you know it. She's the one who approved my scholarship. But you know that already because you were the one who asked her to do it. Why in the hell else would she? She never liked me. She barely tolerated me."

There was a firestorm brewing behind Diana's eyes and it threatened to burn the entire house down.

Clark stepped back but not down from his words. He knew the truth now. She could deny it all she liked. Themyscira Foundation, how had he not figured it out before? A Greek-named foundation headed by one Hippolyta Prince of Greece.

"My mother has many charities. I don't begin to know them all."

"_Charity._ Is that what I was to you, Diana, just some charity case from a hick Kansas town? I guess my humble origins weren't good enough for an heiress that you had to ask your mother to pay my way to Harvard. But, of course, you couldn't tell me. A man's pride and all that, right?"

She stepped away from him, her back going to the door, her eyes as black as his battered soul. Diana, who always held herself perfectly erect, slumped against the door and said in a choked voice, "You really believe everything you're saying. I thought you were in deep mourning and didn't know how to handle your father's death. I didn't like the distance, but I convinced myself that you needed time."

Her head lifted and the strength she seemed to have lost a moment ago came roaring back when she stood to her full six foot height. "I had no idea you harbored such thoughts about me and my mother. That you thought so lowly of me as a person and as a woman."

"There's no other explanation, Diana," he insisted, surprised that she would continue to lie to his face.

"No explanation you're willing to listen to. And I'm no longer inclined to even try. Just for the record, Clark, I've always held you in the highest esteem, thought of you as the finest man I've ever met."

She twisted something off her finger and threw it at him.

Mindlessly, he caught it.

"That is until today." She moved away from the bedroom door and opened it. Stepping into the hallway she said, "I'll have your things forwarded to you. Unless, of course, you think I'm too much of a rich bitch liar to be trusted."

In the same silent way she arrived, Diana walked away from Clark.

Glancing down, he realized he held the engagement ring he'd given her. Turning, he saw his reflection in the mirror, a meager shadow of his former self.

Suddenly feeling like he'd made the biggest mistake of his life, Clark dashed out of his room, down the stairs, and out the front door.

Peeling away from the farmhouse was a black SUV with a too-familiar face in the driver's seat.

_Bruce Wayne._

_Damn him._

_Damn me._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	12. Chapter 11: Mistakes

**Chapter 11: Mistakes **

**Part 1**

**Smallville, Kansas, Kent Residence**

Clark watched as the taillights from Bruce's SUV got farther and farther away. And long after it had gone and the sun had said its final good night, Clark remained rooted, wondering how he could still be alive when his heart no longer pulsed its wretched beat.

He sank to knees gone weak. Bile rose in his throat and Clark began to gag on his grief. Dropping his hands to the dusty ground, Clark heaved up his lunch, his body clenching until there was nothing left inside.

No, there was nothing left inside Clark Kent. Everything he had been was now buried with his father and everything he wanted to become had just driven off with another man. No, there was nothing left of Clark, just a numb shell where a son and a dreamer used to be.

Dragging himself to his feet, Clark went inside the farmhouse. Ignoring the concerned gaze of his mother, Clark ambled up the squeaky stairs and into the bathroom and the waiting shower.

Thirty minutes later, he returned to his room and dressed in sweatpants, T-shirt, and jogging shoes. He had to run, needed to feel the air and wind in his face. But what he really wanted to do was fly. To soar above the clouds and find the rumored silver-lining, or maybe he would discover a pot of gold at a rainbow's end.

Shrugging off the fairytale thoughts of flying and finding treasures where only silly wishes resided, Clark made his way down the stairs.

Stopping in the kitchen for a quick drink of water, Clark found his mother sitting at the wooden table. He glanced at the three empty chairs, one beside her, the other two across from her.

"Would you like me to fix you something to eat?"

"No, ma'am."

"Would you like to talk about what happened up stairs between you and Diana?"

"No, ma'am."

The chair directly across from his mother, the one Clark always sat in when they ate as a family, slid a few inches away from the table. His mother pulled back her foot then lifted her eyes to his.

"Let me rephrase, son. Have a seat so we can talk about what happened between you and Diana."

"I really don't—"

"Sit."

It was a softly spoken command. One Clark immediately heeded.

He sat, temporarily foregoing the water and his run.

Hands crossed in front of her, his mother didn't immediately speak, which was never a good sign. Martha Kent, always quick to speak her mind, was rarely pensive when it came to family matters.

And Clark was wise enough to not fill the silence with useless chatter. As it was, without Jonathan Kent, the house was somberly quiet.

Clark tried not to, but every time he looked at his mother he was transported back to that fateful day two months ago. By the time his flight had landed and he'd driven the rental car to Smallville General Hospital, his father had already slipped away.

And there sat his mother, beside her fallen husband, their hands clasped in a cruel mockery of how Clark so often saw them—happy, smiling, and holding hands.

Taking his place on the other side, Clark had picked up his father's hand. Amazingly, it was still warm, as if he was taking a light snooze and would awake any minute. But this nap, the one that involved a black suit and casket, was eternal.

Two hours later, Diana had called to check on him and his parents. Huddled in a corner of his childhood room, behind a closed door so his mother wouldn't hear, he'd wept, and Diana had cried with him. She'd cried and whispered words of love to him until he had no more tears left to shed. Then she simply talked to him, the topics of no consequence, her soothing, comforting voice was all that had mattered.

Then the sun had risen and Clark was no longer in the corner but curled up on his bed, phone clasped in one hand, Diana softly snoring on the other end. He'd survived the night. But he didn't think he could survive the others, not when he'd looked out at the farm from his bedroom window.

The barn and fence were in disrepair and in need of a good coat or two of paint. Only half the crops had been harvested and Clark saw no sign of Samuel, the field hand who worked for his parents. In truth, Clark had never seen the farm in such a sorry state, his father so meticulous about keeping everything just so. What in the hell had happened while he was away?

"What happened to the farm, Ma?"

"You need to find Diana and mend things with her before it's too late," she said, sidestepping the question he'd asked her many times before.

Clark shook his head. "It's already too late. Besides, I don't want her back. She means nothing to me. Not anymore."

"You've always been a poor liar, son. You don't do it often, but when you do you always shift your eyes down or away."

Clark realized, that, no, he was no longer holding his mother's gaze but staring at the "Home Sweet Home" plaque on the wall behind her.

"She lied to me. I can't trust her. And I don't belong in her world."

"You've always had good judgment, Clark. You've been with that girl for five years, you can't possibly believe she's been deceiving you for all that time."

"It's true, Ma."

His mother sighed, a bone-weary sound that made Clark feel guilty. She didn't need his relationship crap to add to all the other stuff she was dealing with.

"What is it that she's supposed to have done?"

He didn't like the way she posed the question. As if he was clueless and didn't know what he was talking about, so he told her. Everything.

She sighed again, this one tinged with more than a dose of annoyance.

"And she told you she knew nothing about the scholarship?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't believe her?"

"Of course I didn't believe her. Why would I?"

"Because, you prideful, bullheaded man," she snapped, slamming one hand in front of him, "she's the woman you asked to be your wife; the woman who loved you in spite of your massive trust issues; the woman who helped me plan your father's funeral even after you refused to see or speak with her."

_Diana helped plan Pa's funeral? _He hadn't known that. The day after his father's death was when he'd received the text message from his former college professor, informing him that Hippolyta Prince had been his benefactor. Diana had arrived at the Kent farm the day after that, and, yes, he had refused to see her. But none of that changed the fact that she had lied to him.

"Does it not matter to you that Diana lied to me for two years?"

"This is what I know, son," she said, her face flushed with what looked too much like disappointment, "there's always been a part of you that Jonathan and I could never reach. An impenetrable wall that even our unconditional love couldn't breach. We never had answers for you about your parents. We never knew why they put you up for adoption or where they came from. The only thing we knew was that after many years of prayers, God had finally blessed us with a bright, although often sullen, five-year old."

Clark opened his mouth to speak, but his mother's withering gaze had him quickly closing it.

"You were never quite satisfied here, Clark. There's no shame in admitting it to me or to yourself. This life, the one your father and I chose to live, isn't for everyone. We didn't blame you for seeking greener, if you excuse the farm pun, pastures elsewhere. Once you went away to college, we knew you wouldn't become a teacher. We knew that you were only telling us what you thought we wanted to hear."

She reached across the table and covered his cold hand with her tender, smaller one, gently stroking as she continued to speak.

"Diana was a blessing we dared not hope for. If not for her, and your desire to be with her, you would've gotten your college degree then turned your attention to obtaining a teaching certificate just so you could stay close to me and your father. And you would've done that because you love us, because you are terrified of losing us, and" —she held his gaze— "because you are afraid, so very afraid of letting the world in, of truly trusting with all your heart and soul."

His mother was wrong. She was absolutely, positively incorrect about him. Wasn't she?

"I trusted Diana. I've never trusted anyone as much as I trusted her."

"Which is not the same thing as trusting with all your heart and soul. I ask you, Clark, did it once occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Diana didn't ask her mother to approve your application?"

Frigid silence met his mother's too-probing question.

His mother huffed and withdrew her hand. "If you truly trusted her, if you weren't unconsciously fulfilling your own prophecy that those who purport to care about you will one day leave you the way your birth parents did, perhaps it would've occurred to you that Diana's mother loves her daughter."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It means, son, that a mother, even when she disagrees with her child's decisions, still wants him or her to be happy. And, until two months ago, I'm pretty sure you made Diana happy. So happy that she accepted your offer, or have you forgotten that she agreed to become your wife?"

"I haven't forgotten," Clark said gruffly. "And you're just speculating."

"Maybe," she conceded. "Even if you're right and Diana was behind the whole thing, would that be so bad?"

"It would mean she had no faith in me, that she manipulated the last two years of our relationship, and that she thought I needed her charity to succeed. I'm no one's charity case, Ma."

She arched an eyebrow. "Is that how you view me and Jonathan's adoption of you? As charity?"

_Yes._

"Not exactly. That's not what I'm saying, and this has nothing to do with you and Pa."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. You're making so much more out of something very simple. Diana is an heiress who doesn't need to be weighed down by a guy who had to save for two years to purchase her a decent engagement ring. And I need a down-to-earth woman who will accept me for who I am, a woman who won't lie to me and call it love."

"Oh, my poor, poor boy, you can't see beyond your own insecurities and misplaced pride."

"Please, don't look at me like that, Ma?"

"Like what?"

"With pity and sadness in your eyes."

She reached for him again. This time her hand was as cold as his own hand. In fact, his entire body felt frozen, a permanent chill having set in the moment he'd left Diana in the Boston airport.

"How can I not pity you, Clark, you've made an awful, life-changing mistake today. What saddens me even more is that you have yet to fully comprehend the depth of your error. And when you do, when you finally understand all that you have done, will you even know how to forgive yourself?"

His mother pushed from the table and stood, frame too thin, eyes too knowing.

"It's late and I'm tired. When you're done, turn the lights out, please, and lock up."

Without another word, Clark's mother shuffled out of the kitchen, her slippers soft on the hardwood flooring.

He sat there, the urge to run pummeled out of him, as was the angry wind he'd unleashed on Diana. If any of what his mother just said was correct, then he'd just—

Clark jumped up and grabbed the phone off its cradle. He stared down at the glowing digits and did something he hadn't in weeks.

He called Diana.

**Part 2**

**Smallville Bed and Breakfast Inn**

Bruce sat in the recliner, pushed in the corner of the room, and watched as Diana slept. She'd fallen into a fitful sleep less than an hour ago. He'd held her while she cried and could think of nothing to do to help her but stay by her side.

Being there for her was the easiest thing in the world for Bruce. Diana had done it for him time and again. But what had been difficult, what had cleaved him in two was having to stand by these last two months and watch her disintegrate right before his eyes.

Clark had no clue what his failure to return had done to her, the old memories it had dredged up for Diana. As much as Bruce wanted Diana all to himself, he would marry her off to a thousand Clark Kents if it would put an end to her pain, her sense of rejection.

The phone in his pocket vibrated, and he growled. He knew exactly who was calling. This was the fifth time. After the first time when Diana had refused to answer, Bruce had taken the phone from her, put it on vibrate, and shoved it into his pants pocket.

Getting up, Bruce walked to the bed, kissed Diana on the forehead, walked out of her room and closed the door behind him.

Digging the still ringing phone from his pocket, Bruce slid the screen and answered the phone.

"Diana, I'm glad you answ—"

"Not Diana, Kent."

Silence then, "Give the phone to Diana, Bruce. I didn't call to talk to you."

"Well, that's too damn bad because I'm the only person here you will talk to."

Bruce walked farther away from the bedroom and into the quaint living area. Finding the comfortable-looking sofa, he sat.

"Listen, Bruce, I don't want to get into anything with you. I just want to have a quick word with Diana. Please, put her on the line."

"I think you've said enough to her, Clark, don't you? If you say any more, I'll just have to break my promise to Diana to not kill you."

"This has nothing to do with you, Bruce."

"There you're wrong." Bruce relaxed the fist he hadn't realized he'd balled. "I spent nearly an hour trying to console a woman who, up until two months ago, I'd only seen cry twice."

"I didn't mean—"

"Of course you meant to hurt her. You lived with the woman for two years. I'm sure you know every possible way to hurt her."

"That's not what—"

"You're a selfish prick, Clark Kent. Diana didn't deserve the fire you set to her heart today."

"I-I just want to speak to her. I know I messed up. I need to make it right."

Bruce slipped off his black leather loafers and sat them on the floor beside him. Picking up the glass of whiskey he'd prepared for Diana, in the hope that it would calm her nerves, Bruce sipped from the untouched glass. He held it in his hand, listening as Clark, sounding as pathetic as he was, tried to convince Bruce to let him speak with Diana.

It wasn't happening. No way in hell would he permit him to have another go at her, to rip into her the way he had earlier.

"Let me speak with her, Bruce. I thought we were friends. Please."

Bruce gritted his teeth and barely refrained from throwing the glass across the room.

"Friends, Clark. Do you even know the meaning of the word? Well, I do. We all came to Smallville two months ago to pay our respects to the father of our friend. Diana arranged it all. We all came, Diana, me, Ollie, John, and Arthur. We were all here for you, Clark, not just Diana's friends but your friends as well. And we returned today. In case you missed them, they sat in the back of the truck."

"I-I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. You didn't want to know, didn't bother looking beyond that chip you have on your self-righteous shoulder."

Bruce breathed deeply, telling himself that Clark had just lost a parent, and that some losses took an unimaginable toll. He knew, which was why he'd come that first time. This time . . . well, this time he'd come to support Diana, knowing that Clark had finally—unfortunately—fucked up the way Bruce had always believed he would. And for the first time in his life, Bruce wished he weren't right.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I just want to apologize to her."

"Do you believe her, Clark? Do you believe she didn't ask her mother to accept your application?"

There was no immediate reply and Bruce swore. Loudly. Then he glanced over his shoulder and listened for movement in the bedroom. He heard nothing, so he turned back to the phone.

"I can't believe you still think Diana lied to you."

"I didn't say that. I just don't know what to think anymore."

"Tell you what, Clark, you take all the time you need to think. And maybe when you figure it out, you'll have something Diana may be actually interested in listening to."

"Don't do it, Bruce."

"Do what?"

Bruce placed the empty glass on the table, stood, and walked back towards the bedroom.

"Don't take Diana away from me."

"I can't take what you've so thoughtlessly thrown away."

"You're the only person she'll turn to, the only man capable of winning her heart away from me. Don't do it. I'm going to fix this. I have to."

Bruce turned the knob and opened the door. Diana lay unmoving, her black locks in disarray around her head and on the pillows. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"I won't do anything she doesn't want me to do."

"Meaning?"

Bruce removed first his socks then his pants.

"Meaning, if Diana needs me, I'll be here for her."

"And what if she wants to get back at me by sleeping with you?"

Bruce removed his tie then unbuttoned his gray dress shirt.

"Like I said, if she needs me, I'll be here for her. Whatever she wants, I'll give it to her. Unlike you, Clark, if she gives me the chance, I won't squander the opportunity."

"Don't touch—"

Bruce hung up.

Sliding his shirt off and letting it drop to the floor with his other clothing, Bruce pulled back the covers and slid into bed behind Diana.

He wrapped his arms around her and quickly fell into a contented sleep.

The next morning he felt warm lips on his chin and an even warmer body snuggled against him. Diana mumbled something that sounded too much like "Clark."

"Not Clark, Diana, Bruce."

Her eyes opened and they looked so very, very blue in the early morning light.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She grazed his stubble cheek with her hand.

"I know very well who held me last night and kept the nightmares at bay."

He leaned into her hand and kissed it. "Whatever you're feeling this morning, Diana, will pass. Don't do something you'll later regret. I don't want you to view me as a mistake."

She leaned in closer and kissed his lips.

"I won't."

She kissed him again.

And he kissed her back, feeling like the biggest bastard for taking what she had only ever shared with one other.

But did it count for nothing that Bruce was completely in love with Diana? That he would trust and cherish her in a way that Clark Kent never had? That he would never repeat the mistake of Diana's father and leave her alone, feeling rejected and unwanted?

No, Bruce Wayne may be an opportunistic bastard, but he was also a man who learned from the mistakes of others. And for whatever it was worth, he would never do to Diana what Clark had done to her.

"You're mine," he said when he finally claimed her, although his heart knew it to be a lie.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	13. Chapter 12: Baby Steps

**Chapter 12: Baby Steps**

**Present Day**

**Gotham City, Wayne Enterprise**

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Diana, sweaty and aching, pounded into the heavy bag repeatedly.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Her arms and legs felt like string cheese, her head and eyes a five-alarm fire.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

Punch. Punch. Kick.

"Who's your target today, Di or need I even ask?"

Breathing through her nose but wanting to open her mouth and take one large gasp, Diana leveled a front kick and snapped her right leg up and out with all her might, sending the bag and Dinah back.

"Damn, girl, it's a good thing I'm holding the bag or you would've sent me flying into the rafters."

Despite her foul mood, Diana laughed.

"There are no rafters, at least none that we can see."

Diana lowered her hands, then extended her arms, palm up, to Dinah who helped her remove her red boxing gloves.

They were in the Wayne exercise facility, surrounded by free weights, weapon display cases with practice swords, bo's and staffs, and an assortment of weight machines, stationary cycles, as well as yoga and folding mats.

Flexing and stretching her now free hands, Diana could see from the slight redness around each knuckle that she'd overdone her Friday evening workout. Snatching up the water bottle she'd left on the mat behind her, Diana downed half the bottle in one uninterrupted breath.

"So that's the story, huh?" Dinah said, tossing Diana a thick, white towel.

She caught it then used it to wipe sweat from her face, neck, and arms before dropping her bone-tired body to the mat.

Dinah joined her, her hair, like Diana's, pulled back in a high ponytail. They wore their standard after-hours evening workout gear: spandex shorts, sports bra, no shoes.

Tilting the water bottle up to her lips, she finished off the rest of the cool, refreshing drink.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"So, let me make sure I have this straight." Dinah removed the black band holding her hair aloft, allowing the blonde strands to fall free around her shoulders and pretty face. "Clark fucked up then you fucked Bruce."

Diana, who had been looking down at the damage she'd just done to her French manicure, by going all out on the heavy bag, snapped her head up and stared, open-mouthed, at Dinah.

"What? That's the story, right? Did I miss something?"

"I can't believe that's all you got from what I just told you."

Dinah shrugged. "Unlike you corporate types, Diana, the rest of us don't have time for lengthy board meetings. Once you peel back all the big, fancy words, assumptions, preconceived ideas, protocols, beliefs and all that other crap, what you get is what I just said. Clark screwed you over and you screwed Bruce. It's that simple."

Diana could only gape at her friend. How in the hell could she boil a thirty-minute conversation down to two words? Fucked and Screwed._ Unbelievable._

"You know, Diana, I always wondered what happened between you and Clark. When Ollie returned from Smallville that second time, he was tired, pissed, and confused."

That's because all Diana and Bruce had told Ollie and the others was that the engagement was off and that Clark would be staying in Kansas with his mother. Neither had known that for a fact, but it was a safe deduction. No way did Diana see Clark leaving Martha on the farm by herself.

But the odd way Ollie and the others kept looking between Diana and Bruce had made Diana feel naked and exposed.

And guilty. So very guilty.

"I shouldn't have slept with Bruce. It was a mistake."

"We all make them."

Diana closed her eyes, recalling how ashamed she'd felt afterwards. "I don't. Not like that."

"And what exactly did you do that was so wrong? If I understood your story correctly, Clark broke up with you. After that, you owed him nothing. You tried to reach out to him and got bit for it. He wasn't in a place to hear what you had to say."

Diana opened her eyes and faced her friend. "I should've been more patient with him, more understanding." But she had her reasons for reacting so strongly to his abandonment; he wasn't the only one who knew the sting of loss.

"Maybe, Diana, but I don't know. Situations always appear clearer through the lens of time and experience. Personally, I don't think there would've been anything you could've said to Clark. He was simply going through too much, and you, unfortunately, got caught in the backdraft of his emotional fire."

True, but it had been more than that.

"Even so, I shouldn't have used Bruce the way I did."

That heartfelt statement got a hearty snort from Dinah. "Used? No one used Bruce Wayne."

"I did."

She snorted again then shook her head.

"Trust me when I say, you gave Bruce exactly what he wanted."

"We were just friends before that morning. I seduced him."

And she had. When Diana had awoken and felt masculine warmth surrounding her, for a second, for an endless, wonderful second, Diana had thought she was back in her Cambridge apartment, Clark next to her. But when the fog of sleep had cleared and she'd fully awaken, it was Bruce who was cradling her in the protective strength of his arms. It was Bruce who had held and soothed her when she felt like that little girl again, waiting by the front door for daddy to return home, knowing with each ticking second that he would never walk through the door again.

And it had been Bruce whose unconditional love and support had given her the courage to travel to Smallville a second time to confront Clark. Bruce, who'd reminded her that the death of a father was the greatest blow to a son, no matter the age. Setting aside her pride, her hurt, her fear, she'd gone in search of her Clark.

In the end, the search was a futile one. The man she'd found was not the Clark Kent she'd known, not the man who'd shared her life and bed, nor the man who had asked her to marry him. That man was nowhere to be found. Instead, some other Clark had stared out from eyes gone dead, spewing cruel words and judgments from a mouth that used to give the most passionate of kisses, recite the most romantic of poems.

Then Diana had fallen into a cliché, a romantic trope of bedding the best friend after a traumatic breakup. How many Harlequin heroines had taken that path? How many had sought comfort and pleasure in the arms of the dark, brooding antihero? Contemporary or Regency, such novels sold millions, the cliché timeless and familiar.

Dinah crossed her legs in front of her, looking as fresh as she had when they began their workout. The woman was in amazing shape, fit, toned, disciplined and an outstanding Tae Kwon Do instructor. Diana had learned much from Dinah since Bruce's death. She was determined to never be anyone's victim. _Never again._

"Real talk here, Di. It's been three years since Bruce's death and you haven't once taken a lover."

"I'm not ready for a relationship. You know that."

"Two separate things. You're an attractive woman in her prime. I see men, all the time, falling all over you, hanging on your every word, yet you ignore them. Hell, I'm not even sure if you even notice half the time. I don't even think you know how Steve Trevor feels about you."

"Steve? What are you talking about?"

Dinah rolled her eyes. An exasperated sigh followed. "You make my point. Male companionship is so far off your radar. Sex is off your radar. No relationship, I get that. But after three years . . . well, a woman has her needs."

Diana had no idea where Dinah was going with all of this. Yes, of course, she had needs, but she wasn't ready to move on. Besides, there was no one that remotely tempted her to take that giant step.

"This is the thing, my friend, a woman like you only have sex with men she loves. You don't do casual. You have to have a strong emotional attachment to the man before you take that step with him."

Diana felt mildly uncomfortable. She didn't like being dissected, especially about something so personal.

"There's nothing wrong with that?"

"No there isn't. But if you agree with my assessment then you have to ask yourself why you slept with Bruce."

"I told you, already. I seduced him. I was hurt and angry and he was there for me. I took advantage."

"You loved him."

"Of course I did. He was my best friend."

"Did you love Ollie back then?"

"Yes."

"And John?"

"Yes."

"And Arthur."

"Yes, yes, yes, Dinah. Dammit, you know this. I loved them then and I love them even more now."

"If one of them had stayed with you all night, the way Bruce did, would you have slept with that person as well."

Diana's cheeks flamed red with offense. "What the hell is wrong with you? Of course I wouldn't have slept with one of them. The thought is outrageous."

"Why?" Dinah challenged. "You loved them and they were your friends. You loved Bruce and he was also your friend. I don't see the difference."

Diana regretted beginning this conversation. Dinah was normally such a sensible woman, a good listener and a great friend. And Diana needed to talk, to vent, to release. Short of Donna, who was in California with their mother, Dinah seemed the best choice. Now, though, she wished she'd kept her own counsel.

"There was a difference between the others and Bruce. Can you not see that, Diana? Can you not admit what was probably painfully obvious to Clark, if even not to your conscious mind?"

Diana said nothing. She no longer even looked at Dinah. Her mind reeled from the possibility of the truth of her words. Worse, her heart offered up no protest.

Dinah touched her shoulder, a friendly gesture of comfort, of understanding.

"There's no shame in admitting that you loved Bruce more than as a friend. From what I know of the two of you, you'd known each other a good long time, been through a lot. Friendship, Diana, is the strongest precursor to a lasting romantic relationship. When you were with him that long-ago morning, the love was already there, the bonds of friendship, trust, and mutual respect firmly established. You only required the right emotional push."

"Are you saying that, with time, I would've betrayed Clark with Bruce?"

"No, that's not at all what I'm saying. I'm just trying to get you to understand and accept that the ingredients for a romantic, sexual union between the two of you were there, below the surface and dormant. And it probably would've stayed that way, ignored and un-acted upon." Dinah dropped her hand. "But things went to hell with you and Clark and Bruce was there, as I'm sure, he always had been for you. Like I said, you don't do casual or even simple rebound. You have to care a lot for a man to invite him to your bed."

Her head felt as if it would explode, worse, her stomach roiled. Diana slapped a hand over her mouth before shoving her head between her bent knees, hoping the room would stop spinning and the aching guilt stop churning.

God, it made too much sense. Too. Much. Sense.

Dinah rubbed her back in a soothing circular motion.

"You still with me, Diana? I really don't need you passing out, especially since I'm not done."

_Not done? What else is there?_

Diana fell back onto the blue mat and looked up into the smiling face of her friend.

"What in the hell are you smiling at?"

"You. This is the most animated I've seen you in a long time. Too long, sweets."

_Since Bruce's death_. Dinah was too kind to say, but the truth was in the sympathetic eyes that stared down at her.

"But since Clark reentered your life . . . well, you're full of fire."

"He's driving me crazy. He thinks he can just walk back into my life after ten years and pick up where we left off. Who does that? What makes him think that I even give a damn about him anymore?"

"Because you're letting him write a biography on Thomas Wayne."

"That was Bruce's idea, not mine."

"True, but there are plenty of good biographers, Diana. And with your money and reputation, you could have your pick. You don't need Clark Kent to fulfill Bruce's wishes."

"I have no idea what Ollie sees in you, Dinah. You have the most annoying tendency to ramble, and you're not nearly as perceptive as you think."

Dinah laughed then shoved Diana with her foot.

The good humor was short-lived when Diana admitted, "I don't want to revisit the past. It requires too much effort I'm unwilling to expend. I have other priorities, and they don't involve Clark Kent."

"Like finding those responsible for the murder of your family."

It wasn't a question. Dinah knew perfectly well what Diana had been about these last three years. She wouldn't rest until the perpetrators had been caught and dealt with. She and her board were making steady progress, and her instincts told her the day of reckoning was fast approaching. And when that day came, she would be ready and her enemies would pay.

"What else is there?"

"Life, Diana. _Life._ You may have forgotten, but you didn't perish with Bruce and Brina. And you need to stop acting as if you did."

A familiar lecture, one her mother had delivered often enough over the years. A lecture she'd quickly tired of and didn't need to hear again.

"I'm not ready."

"Only because you won't allow yourself to be ready. Look, I'm not saying you should rekindle that tired, dysfunctional flame with Clark, but I am saying that you should at least listen to what the man has to say."

And he had asked her out, over the last two weeks, to both dinner and lunch. All of which she'd declined. They'd talked, but only of the biography, only of safe, benign topics. And whenever he'd ventured to speak of more personal matters, she, not so subtly, changed the subject.

"I think he wants my forgiveness."

"I'm sure he does."

Diana sat up. "I don't know if I have it in me to forgive him." She reached for Dinah's hand and held it. "How did you manage to forgive Ollie after what he'd done?"

A flash of pain sparked in Dinah's eyes. Two years ago it had been more than a flash. The hurt and anger had been a barely contained deluge.

"Forgiveness takes time and effort. When it first happened, when I first learned of his affair, I just wanted him out of my life."

Diana squeezed her friend's hand tighter, recalling the day when Dinah had fled from the home she'd shared with Ollie after having learned of a short-lived affair he'd had with his lawyer. No one knew where she'd gone, and Ollie was a wreck with guilt and worry.

A week later Dinah had called Diana, informing her of her whereabouts and asking her to only tell Ollie that she was safe but that she had no intention of returning home any time soon. And she hadn't, traveling to Rome with Hippolyta on her biannual visit to the resort.

Yet within three months' time, Dinah was back in the States and she and Ollie in marriage counseling.

"I confess, Diana, a small part of me hated him. I hated him with a fierce passion that had me thinking of ways to kill him without being caught. Castration crossed my mind more than once."

Diana let that unsurprising confession sink in. Ollie was her very good friend, but, for a while, it was hard for her to see him as anything other than the lying, cheating husband he'd become to Dinah. Yet he hadn't judged her that morning after seeing a half-dressed Bruce creep from her bedroom and into his. Nor had he any day after that.

"But you've somehow managed to get past that? After all this time, I don't know if I can."

"Forgiving is not the same as forgetting. There's a huge difference between the two. Unfortunately, I don't think that I can ever forget, but, with a lot of hard work, I have managed to forgive him."

With silent agreement, they both reclined on the mat. Companionable silence lingered between them until Dinah said, "Forgiveness given is forgiveness earned."

Diana thought about that. Did she have anything for which she needed Clark's forgiveness? Was he the only one at fault in what had happened to bring their relationship to an unlikely end?

She turned to Dinah. "You think I need to apologize for sleeping with Bruce on the heels of our breakup?" Despite all that Diana had said, she knew she owed him at least that much. Probably a lot more.

"Not by my standards, but that's your call."

"Then what?"

Dinah shifted onto her side, hand propping up her head.

"For holding your long-standing friendship with Bruce in higher regard than you did your relationship with Clark. For all that you would have married Clark, ten years ago, Bruce was your best friend. By right, that role should have shifted to Clark. Tell me, Diana, when you and Bruce finally got together, other than sex, how did your relationship change?"

The question, while easy to answer, was hard to admit. Their relationship had changed very little. The transition from friend to lover had been strangely an easy one. They spent more time together, of course, but nothing more significant than that had changed between them. In time, her love for him had grown, but that was to be expected. And when he'd proposed, it seemed like the most natural thing to accept, to extend their long friendship into a marital union.

That alone validated Dinah's point. Yes, she had much for which to apologize.

Diana's silence must have been answer enough for Dinah because she stood, walked out of sight, and then returned a minute later. Dropping down beside her again, Dinah placed an object on Diana's stomach.

Knowing what it was, Diana plucked it off her. She looked down at it then at her friend.

"Have one meal and a talk. You owe that to yourself and to Clark."

Dinah stood once more, walked away again, but, this time, didn't return.

The phone burned in her palm, tempting her to throw it and Dinah's advice across the room.

After long minutes of simply sitting and contemplating, Diana began to dial, hoping to get his voicemail. Instead she heard, "Hello, Diana."

Pause. One second. Two. Three.

"Hello, Clark."

_Baby steps_, she told herself. _Baby steps._

"If you're free tomorrow, I was hoping we could have lunch . . ."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	14. Chapter 13: Hippolyta Rising

**Chapter 13: Hippolyta Rising**

Six Months Ago

Los Angeles, Paradise Island Resort and Spa

Hippolyta Prince was as lovely as Clark remembered. Thick blonde hair elegantly done up in some twisty wrap design Clark couldn't begin to name or describe showed off her slim, creamy neck and strong Grecian features. Eyes the color of coral stared across her desk at him and Clark recalled that look as well. Hers was the penetrating, unblinking gaze of a woman who was one part cool arrogance, two parts shrewd intelligence.

Staring into such eyes gave Clark the slightest inkling of what a wolf's prey must experience the moment before the beast charged in for the kill, ripping it to pieces with sharp claws and even sharper fangs. And for all that Diana resembled her mother in form and features, Diana had never looked at him with such arctic indifference, not even when he'd accused her of lying and deceiving him, or even when she'd fled the farm.

No, only silent hurt and disbelief had stared back at him then, causing Clark to feel like the predator, the wolf in sheep's clothing who had taken an unsuspecting Diana by surprise.

Clark sat straight in the chair, imagining an invisible interrogation light in his face, compelling him to confess to his crimes, Hippolyta the bad cop. If Donna were around, she would do well as the good cop. But Donna wasn't here. Only Hippolyta and Clark occupied the large, open-spaced office.

As many times as he'd visited the resort, he'd never entered Hippolyta's lair, an office he'd assumed that would be fit for a queen. Clark had envisioned an office full of expensive oil paintings or ancient statues, overflowing bookshelves with the rarest literary finds, or even the latest the technology world had to offer. Instead, Hippolyta's office, while undoubtedly grand in size, had none of those things. Ocean blue walls the color of Diana's and Donna's eyes surrounded Hippolyta. No overpriced artwork hung from her walls. Instead, pictures of her daughters, at all stages of development, ran from one end of her office to the other, and interspersed with what looked to be family vacation photos and hand-made Mother's Day cards.

And the whitest, softest carpet he'd ever seen or felt covered her floor.

Even her desk, the one Clark was sure would be made of the most solid of woods, like her hard heart, was respectable in size and made of a beautifully spun glass, specks of pink and yellow throughout.

He hadn't expected any of this, hadn't thought her capable of having tender emotions like any other mother.

She had never been kind to him. And yet she had never been openly unkind either. Hippolyta just simply seemed to hold him and his relationship with Diana with indifferent regard, neither effusive nor condemning. But her eyes never failed to bespeak a much deeper reaction, a quieter, unreadable emotion that managed to set Clark on edge, make him feel like an inconsequential waif.

"This visit is well overdue. Admittedly, I was quite taken aback by your phone call and meeting request. Quite frankly, this bold move is one I did not expect from you."

And how could Clark ever forget Hippolyta's sharp, tactless, go-for-the-jugular tongue? If nothing else, the woman was a plain speaker. Clark would follow her lead. Like Hippolyta, he had no interest in false pleasantries or feigned sentimentality.

"We need to talk, to clear the air."

"Of course."

"About Diana."

"Obviously, what else would we have to talk about?"

_Yeah, definitely a straight shooter._

This day, this moment, was well past due, like Hippolyta said. Ten years ago . . . hell, two years ago, the idea of sitting down with Diana's obstinate mother would've never crossed his mind. And if it had, he would've quickly dismissed it as a sign of stress, fatigue, or simple lunacy. But the act was necessary, critical even.

Hippolyta pointed to the glass of water she'd offered him earlier. It sat, untouched, on the edge of her desk in front of him.

"You look a little parched, Clark, why don't you take a drink then tell me what has brought you to L.A. and my office."

Taking her suggestion, Clark reached for the glass, pulled it to him and drank. It was good and cool and a brief diversion. He sipped from the glass until the water was no more. Then he placed the empty glass back on the coaster.

"Thank you."

She inclined her head, acknowledging the good manners drilled in him by Martha Kent.

Clark cleared his throat. "I intend to visit Diana in a few months. There are unfinished shreds between us I'd like to take care of."

Hippolyta's expression remained the same, no sign of surprise, disgust, or even anger, nothing but a calm countenance.

"And why are you telling me this? My daughter lives her own life, makes her own decisions."

Why indeed? But he knew why. They both knew why.

"I want you to tell me about the scholarship application you approved so I could attend Harvard."

One eyebrow arched, and then she leaned forward, her palms going to her desk.

"Do you still believe Diana asked me to fund your graduate education?"

This was an unavoidable question he expected her to ask.

"I think Diana wanted to help me, but knowing I wouldn't take money from her, she asked you to help her help me."

The other eyebrow went the way of the first, and then she shook her head and sank back into her leather executive chair.

"Those unfinished shreds you mentioned will remain such if you have yet to divine the truth of ten years ago."

Inwardly, Clark bristled. Hippolyta had no clue. It had taken him years to accept that Diana had acted on his behalf, from a good place in her heart when she'd made the request of her mother. Back then, he had been too proud by far. No way would he have accepted Diana's help. Knowing him, she'd constructed a scheme that would allow him to attend a top tier graduate school and keep them together while also saving his male pride. Hippolyta could shove her sanctimonious attitude into his empty glass.

"And what truth is that?"

"Before I answer that question, answer one of mine."

Why didn't the woman just speak the truth? After all these years, there was no reason to lie, to protect Diana. They all knew the facts.

"Sure. Fine."

"What are your intentions toward Diana?"

He'd expected that one as well. Clark would tell her the truth. It wasn't a secret, and, he knew, Diana would tell her anyway.

"I hated the way things ended, the way I handled everything. I had my reasons and they made sense to me then." Full disclosure wasn't necessary. He would only share all with Diana. "If nothing else, I hope we can set aside old animosities and perhaps become friends."

"But you'd take more?"

"I would like more, yes. But only if she's ready, if she's willing. If not, friendship would be a good start."

Hippolyta sipped from her own glass, iced tea instead of water. She considered him, clearly thinking something over. Her wolf gaze narrowed before she closed her eyes and sighed. Opening them she said, "I will tell you several family truths before I answer your question. They are a breach of Diana's privacy and trust, which I have never done. But I will tell you these things with the hope that you will have a better understanding of my daughter now than you did when you were last together."

Surprised, Clark blinked, not sure what had come over the self-possessed Hippolyta. The guard she wore like a knight's chainmail fell right before his stunned blue eyes.

Hippolyta sipped again from her glass, and Clark wondered if the drink was spiked with more than lemon.

"There were three times I lost my daughter," she began. "The third time nearly took her from me. That was when she was shot and nearly killed. You know, you were there at the hospital with us."

Yes, he had been, and then he'd fled. He'd run like the scared, insecure rabbit he was, the scared, insecure rabbit he'd been most of his life.

"You say you want to be Diana's friend, but the Diana you once knew is buried under layers of grief, guilt, and plots of revenge. The daughter that left the hospital without her husband and baby wasn't the same daughter I'd kissed goodnight at the end of her baby shower. I haven't seen that daughter in three long years. She's missing. Lost to me."

As she spoke of her eldest daughter, Hippolyta, the mother, shown through, a spiraling meteor that smashed into Clark's firmly established image of her. He'd never doubted her love of her daughters, yet this softer, vulnerable side of her was new, if not a bit disconcerting.

"The second time I lost her was after her breakup with you."

Clark wanted to interject, wanted to . . . well, he didn't know what. The breakup had devastated him, although he'd been the one to end it. When Diana had come to the farm, even in his anger and cruelty, Clark knew she'd come there to reconcile with him, to take him home. But there was no reconciliation in him. His pain was too deep, and she was there, with her soft lips and even softer lies. And he'd struck out; lashing her with his pain, making her bleed, share in his bleak suffering. Pushing her away, all the while knowing in the deepest recesses of his mind where she would turn, to whom she would turn. And she had. He didn't know exactly when. Perhaps that night when he'd called and Bruce had refused to put her on the phone, or maybe when they returned to Cambridge. The when didn't matter, only that he'd never gone after her and she'd eventually ended up with Bruce, a man who could give her all the things that a man like Clark could not.

"A week after returning to Cambridge, she left. She was gone a year. Diana would call once a month to let me know she was fine, but would never tell me where she was. She said she needed time to think and reassess but to not bother searching for her."

That didn't sound like the Diana he knew at all. His Diana wasn't one to run away. She stayed and fought. But . . .

"Then one day she showed up here, acting as if she'd just returned from a jaunt to Napa Valley."

"Where did she go? What did she do?"

A sigh. "She never said and I didn't push. I was just so relieved to have her back home. We all were."

Clark was sure that the "we" had also included Bruce Wayne. But she had left everything she loved behind for a year. _To think and reassess?_ What had he been doing during the first year of their breakup? Still sulking, thinking her living it up with Bruce. Yet she hadn't been. _Maybe I wasn't the only one devastated by our breakup._

"This next part I tell you so you can understand the first two. Diana, if she knew, would not appreciate my loose tongue, but dirty laundry must be aired eventually." Hippolyta breathed audibly then said, "I suppose Diana never told you about her father."

"She told me that you two divorced when she was a child."

"That's true, but I suspect she told you no particulars."

That was true, she hadn't. Nor had he told her the particulars concerning his family. _So many secrets. Too many._

"Nothing more. Just about the divorce."

"Ambrose, the girls' father, was a handsome man, like most Greeks. Proud and strong and charming. At twenty-two, we married young, fancying ourselves in love and above the trials and tribulations that plague many marriages. For years, we were happy. At least I was."

"But he wasn't?"

"In retrospect, there were signs that he was not. Yet, at the time, I did not see them, perhaps even choosing not to see them. And there was the fledging resort that occupied much of my time, so much of my time that it took me a while to notice how little time we spent together or that Ambrose and Donna's nanny were having an affair."

Clark vaguely remembered Diana saying something about her father cheating on her mother.

Hippolyta said this with her normal coldness, but this time, Clark saw beyond the icy façade to the cutting shard of betrayal that lingered in her eyes, maybe even her heart.

"Diana, like most girls I suppose, adored her father. Black haired and blue eyes, the girls' resemblance to Ambrose was unmistakable. After I learned of the affair and dismissed the nanny, the quarrels we never had time for began. They were loud, lengthy, and lethal. He had more affairs and I buried myself in work and the children. Back then, our home was no place for children. Donna was a baby and knew no different."

"But Diana wasn't a baby." Of course she wouldn't have been. Diana, seven years older than Donna, would've been smack in the center, privy to her parents' constant bickering and fights.

"No, unfortunately, Diana heard and saw far too much. Until one day Ambrose kissed Diana on her forehead, promised he'd be back soon and never returned. I held a two-year old Donna in my arms, knowing he lied, knowing he had no intention of returning. And I let him go, hating him for his weakness, hating him because, in spite of everything, I still loved him."

A single tear dropped from Hippolyta's left eye, and all that he thought he knew about this woman shattered into a thousand pieces of misjudgments.

"For a while, Diana became the mother, taking care of both me and Donna. For all that she used to stir up mischief, getting into trouble more often than not; Diana became the most well- mannered, obedient child. I rarely had to speak to her about anything. Gone were the normal scoldings or punishments. She went out of her way to please me, to make me happy. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Clark?"

Unfortunately, he did.

"She was afraid if she did something wrong, you would leave her as well."

Hippolyta ran a weary hand over her face. "She had gotten it into her little nine-year old mind that it was her mischief that had run her father off. That somehow she was to blame. It was all nonsense, of course, but try explaining that to a child. Eventually, she began to blame her father, feeling abandoned by him as time went on and he never sought visitation, his calls sporadic until they ceased entirely."

Clark swallowed. It didn't take a genius to see the point of Hippolyta's story. And it was a damn good point. Although not identical, his treatment of Diana wasn't so different from her father's.

"I tried to compensate for the loss of their father, spoiling them rotten with trips and trinkets. But such frivolities are fleeting. And for all that I've taught my daughters, tried to instill in them, I should have taken more care to teach them how to deal with pain, with loss, more importantly, how to forgive their own weaknesses and mistakes."

Unable to sit a moment longer, Clark stood, his dress shoes sinking into the plush carpet. He began to pace, listening as Hippolyta talked.

"You see, Clark, while I make no claim to have been the perfect wife, Ambrose found it difficult to be married to a woman who was more successful and had more money than himself. I didn't know this at first; it took many an argument for him to finally admit the truth to me. According to him, he felt as if he lived in my shadow, as if I had little to no respect for him because my income exceeded his own. He was jealous of my business associates, thinking I had more in common with them because of shared interests and financial standing. He missed the point that I loved him as he was, and only wanted the same in return. And because he missed the point, he sabotaged our marriage and ruined our little family."

Clark stopped pacing, his head aching from the sledgehammer her words deftly wielded.

"I'm not Ambrose, and Diana isn't you."

Hippolyta finished the dregs of her drink before scoffing at him. "Of course you two are, or rather you had the potential to be. I didn't want my daughter to repeat my fate. She had suffered enough."

"I would never . . ." He was about to say he would never leave his wife and children the way Ambrose had done. That he wasn't the type of man to be jealous and resentful of his wife's success, good fortune, and friends. But hadn't he? Hadn't the young, too-prideful Clark felt all the things that Ambrose had felt? Had the same insecurities? Hadn't he waited for the slightest excuse to sabotage his relationship, taken the flimsiest rationale to fulfill his own doomsday prophecy?

"What about the scholarship?" He had to know, although he was sure he'd, yes, finally, divined the truth.

"Put simply, you could not afford Harvard. My daughter was in love with you, and would have continued in that ridiculous long-distance relationship with you whether you attended Harvard or not. Most likely, you would've gotten some local job and taken graduate classes in the evening, continuing to save your money so you could visit Diana during summer months. But how long did you think that arrangement would last, Clark? How long would it have been before you felt fully inadequate with your life's trajectory in relation to Diana's? And how long would it have taken before you began to blame her for your lack of success and struggles?"

The denial he'd quickly formed stuck in his throat. The truth was that the jealousy and resentment had always been there, a green-eyed monster he'd born with shame, but a resilient creature even in the face of love.

"So when your scholarship application came across my desk, I approved it. If Diana would've asked, I would've done the same. But she didn't. She never knew, and I never told her. If I had, she would've told you. And you, being more prideful than forward-thinking, would've rejected the offer."

The younger Clark Kent would've done exactly that, as shortsighted and stupid as it would've been.

"But let me be very clear with you, Clark. I read the short story that was submitted with the application and was quite impressed with your writing skills and overall potential. But would-be writers are as numerous as the grains of sand at the El Matador Beach. And while talent alone should be all that counts, in the business world it's whom you know and where you went to school. Having a Harvard degree behind you, as well as the network of Harvard friends, opens doors that would otherwise be closed to a young talent from Smallville, Kansas."

He hated everything she'd just said, giving voice to old fears and societal realities.

"Unfair, I know, but it's the way of things."

"So that was your way of helping?"

"Lot of good it did. You still broke her heart."

"I thought she lied to me," he defended, weak though it was.

"Perhaps you only wanted to believe she lied to you. Maybe you were afraid. I don't know. But what I do know is that you should have known better than to believe that Diana would ever lie to you. Admittedly, Diana holds her tongue on many things and buries her pain in the deepest, most unreachable of caverns, but she's never been a liar. You should've trusted her more and your doubts less."

He had nothing to say to that, and so many questions for Diana. She'd shared none of this with him, at least not the part about her father. But she had told him she knew nothing of the scholarship. _And I didn't believe her._

"When Ambrose left, that was the first time I lost Diana and, truth be told, I've never completely gotten her back." Hippolyta's eyes, soft and open, stared at Clark. "I would like her back, happy, trusting, and free of grief. Do you think you can do that? Is there a chance you can help her heal? Be her friend when she most needs one?"

Clark didn't know if he could. According to the letter Bruce had sent him, Wayne thought him best capable of doing precisely what Hippolyta had just asked of him. But maybe too many years had elapsed and Diana too set in her ways. Maybe there was nothing left of their long-ago connection worthy of salvaging. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they could begin anew, a second chance for them both.

"This wasn't exactly the conversation I expected to have when I requested this meeting."

"No, I don't suppose it wasn't. But, like I said, this conversation was well overdue. I'm glad you came, and I apologize if I ever made you feel less than welcomed here. You're right, you aren't Ambrose, and I shouldn't have treated you as if you were. Ambrose, curse his prideful, selfish soul, has never confronted his past or himself. That's a difference that even a jaded business woman like me can acknowledge and respect."

Hippolyta stood and walked until she stood in front of Clark. Several inches shorter than him, but tall for a woman, she looked up at him and then extended her hand.

In all the years he had known her, visited her resort and Massachusetts home, they had never touched, not even a handshake she was now offering.

He took it, and, not surprising, her grip was strong and sturdy.

Holding his hand firmly, Hippolyta said, "She won't be easy. Diana has become hard, cold, and unforgiving. But if you can get her to talk, to loosen up, I believe you'll have a good chance of reaching her, of bringing her back from the brink before it's too late."

_Before it's too late?_

The sad note in her voice said that she had already tried and failed. Funny that, Hippolyta Prince, a woman he always thought hated him, was now asking for his help. Life had a strange way of turning things upside down.

She released his hand and stepped back.

"Thank you for coming, Clark. If all goes well, I hope to see you in Gotham."

"I look forward to it," Clark said, knowing it was true, hoping today was a turning point in his semi-adversarial relationship with Hippolyta, which, had been a constant wedge between Clark and Diana when they were together. He was tired to death of wedges.

His.

Hers.

Theirs.

Closing the door to Hippolyta's office, Clark went in search of his cousin Kara. After his conversation with Hippolyta, Clark had a suspicion he wanted to run by her. And, of course, to give her little C.J.'s gift.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	15. Chapter 14: Disassembling Diana

**Chapter 14: Disassembling Diana**

**Present Day**

**Gotham City, Gotham Central Park**

At least five times since rising this warm Saturday morning, Diana had contemplated cancelling her luncheon with Clark. Three of those times she'd had the phone in her hand. Twice she'd dialed and twice she'd hung up after the first ring. The temptation to avoid him and their past was overwhelming, the urge to retreat behind frigid nonchalance an oft used ploy. But such maneuvers, ones she'd employed with effective regularity in her business dealings were an unbecoming mark of a coward when used with family and friends.

Yet Clark Kent was neither family nor friend. _Yet he wants to be friends_, she reluctantly reminded herself. He did indeed, but Diana was no longer the naïve, blind young woman she'd once been. Repeated heartbreak and disappointments had a way of shattering the distorted glass houses girls too often built around themselves, seeing out with assumed clarity of purpose, of vision, of insight, but failing to recognize the one-way nature of the house.

Such gilded cages tricked and manipulated the mind, posing as flittering beacons of hope and faith, while shielding one from harsh truths and bitter realities, a most alluring of masquerades.

But Diana no longer resided in her gilded cage, no longer participated in the biggest masquerade of life, the masked ball of love, faith, and hope. No, she'd danced at those balls before, dreamily floating from a dip to a rise to a pirouette.

Diana headed for the empty bench at the end of the trail. An oak tree arched up and over to provide the right amount of privacy and shade. Ordinarily, Diana avoided Gotham Central Park, particularly at night. Yet, at only midday, night was hours away and she wasn't alone. If a mugger wanted to take his or her chance, then that unfortunate individual would have to contend with a former military and FBI agent.

She glanced over her shoulder and up the hill. Steve Trevor stood on the outside of the black Bentley, his observant eyes shifting from one spot in the park to another. He hadn't liked when she'd asked him to remain at the car. And as much as the firm set of his square jaw told her he disagreed, Steve knew better than to waste his time arguing with her. He could protect her just as well from his perch by the car as he could if he were standing beside her. Besides, she wasn't exactly a helpless female, incapable of securing her own person.

Furthermore, Diana thought, glancing to her right, Clark was with her, and his six-foot plus bodybuilder frame alone would discourage all but the most aggressive or stupid of criminals. Admittedly, Gotham had its fair share of both.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," she said, then stared out at the pond a few feet away. Ducks filled the shallow water, and children laughed, pointed, and threw bits of bread into the water and onto the ground, hoping to lure the creatures ever nearer for a closer look. She smiled; the scene of happy children and ever-watchful parents bringing a tug of warmth. That hadn't always been the case, but today she could bare it. Today, she would bare more than that.

Diana opened the lunch basket she'd placed in the space between them. When she'd invited Clark to lunch, she understood the meeting had nothing to do with either of them enjoying a cozy meal together. For all the times they'd met since he'd begun his research, there was nothing cozy or relaxing about their time in each other's company. They were tense, stilted moments she neither liked nor embraced.

"As usual, Alfred has outdone himself." Indeed, he had. The small basket was full to overflowing with fresh fruit, mixed green salads, finger sandwiches, cold chicken, sliced chocolate cake, mini apple and cherry pies, bottled water, and the necessary plates, napkins, and utensils. It all looked wonderful, and Diana couldn't stomach to eat a single bite. "Help yourself, Clark."

Using the hand sanitizer before making himself a plate, Clark dug in with all the gusto of a man too long on hotel and carry out cuisine.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked around a mouth full of chocolate cake, twenty minutes later.

"Not hungry." She watched as he polished off three fruit pies, downing each with two ravenous bites. "Apparently you are."

He smiled sheepishly at her, and Diana was struck by how well she remembered that smile, how much that quirk of his full lips used to make her want to do and say anything to keep him in the cheery moment just so she could bask in the radiance his smile never failed to flood her with. She squashed the memory and the sensation. That was an old trodden path that had been ripe with unseen cracks, ignored fissures, and unexpected falling rocks that had blocked their path and ended their journey.

He nodded. "I didn't have breakfast. Too busy editing the first three chapters of the biography."

This was something else she recalled about Clark, the way he'd devote endless hours to his craft, sitting in front of his computer, churning out one brilliant story after another.

Ten minutes later, Clark finally closed the lid on the basket, looking for all the world like a sated gentleman of leisure.

Twisting on the bench to face her, Clark eyed Diana for long seconds before saying, "Did I give you enough time? If I'd eaten anymore I'd likely split my khakis."

She kept her face in profile, staring between the ducks and playing children and inward at the words she needed to say to Clark. It was no longer an issue of want. She hadn't wanted any of this; hadn't wanted to open her heart and mind to repressed memories and forgotten regrets. Yet need invariably trumped want. And she was here to purge herself of her infernal, crippling need for honesty in spite of her want to curl into a ball until the emotional storm that was Clark Kent had passed.

Nervous and unaccountably shy, Diana tugged at the hem of her white-and-black, short-sleeved blouse. Only Clark ever had the unnerving power to bring out the insecure side of her, the side she'd suppressed for most of her life. The side she abhorred because it bred vulnerability and self-doubt.

"If you wouldn't mind Clark, I'd rather not have a conversation." She darted her eyes away from the children and to the man sitting on the other side of the wicker basket. "I'm sure there are things you probably like to say to me, perhaps even more you'd like to ask. But I'd rather not do all of that excavation today." _Or any other day._

"I understand."

"Do you?" She didn't know if he really did, or whether Clark, over the last two weeks, had comprehended that Diana no longer sought to please and pacify others, while denying her own valid feelings and emotions. No, her fear resided elsewhere now, not in disappointing others but in disappointing herself. And she had done that in spectacular fashion the morning she'd lain with Bruce at the Smallville Bed and Breakfast.

"Yes. Look, Diana, I know this is tough on you, having me drop into your life after ten years of absence. It's tough on me, as well, but at least I had time to prepare. I gave you virtually no warning before ending up on your doorstep."

His hand began to extend, as if he would touch her shoulder. But Clark, seeming to think better of it, dropped his hand to the back of the bench.

And, to her dismay, Diana tingled with both relief and regret, an emotional mix that only served to heighten her anxiety.

"I get it; I won't push. Today, just share what you want. I'll listen. I didn't before, but I will now. That's why I'm here. Just to listen, to clear the air between us. I only ask," he said, suddenly appearing as nervous as she felt, "that you'll meet with me again, outside of Wayne Enterprise, so I can do the same. I'll talk, and you'll listen."

Another meeting? Of course, he would want to meet again. She'd known he would, still the thought of extending the emotional malaise increased the throbbing in her head, the headache having set in the moment Alfred had picked Clark up from the Gotham Inn, ushering him into the Bentley beside Diana. A disgruntled looking Steve had sat in the front passenger seat, his unfriendly eyes glaring at Clark through the rearview mirror.

Diana nodded, accepting the terms, and then refocused her attention away from Clark. Nor the children or the pond offered the distracting comfort of moments ago; instead, Diana stared off into the white-blue horizon as she contemplated her words.

"I envied you, Clark," she began. "I know I'd never said, but I did."

"I can't imagine why you of all people would envy me. I had so little and you had so much."

Too many people thought as Clark, assuming that money and material goods were the main things of value to a person. They were not, nor were they the most important. For all of her life, Diana had been judged by wealth alone. Categorized as a snob and quickly tossed into a box of prejudice, stereotypes, and assumptions. A rare few bothered to pull back the curtain to see the true woman that lived behind the fashionable clothing and Ivy League education.

"When it came to the Kents, you were wealthy beyond your own appreciation. I remember the stories you told me about fishing and camping with your father, about the way your parents never missed a school function, and how much Jonathan and Martha Kent loved each other. You relayed those stories as if they were the normal happenings in every family. Trust me, Clark, such family dynamics does not exist for far too many children." She lifted a bottle of water to her lips and sipped. "It didn't exist for me and Donna."

"Tell me about it."

"I think you know more than I ever shared." In a state of guilt, upon learning of Clark's arrival in Gotham, Hippolyta had confessed to the conversation she'd had with Clark a half-year earlier. Diana didn't bother mustering up the outrage and hurt her mother had expected. Instead, an odd sense of relief had swept over her.

"Tell me anyway. I want to know, to understand."

Clark hadn't wanted to know in the past. Never asked questions about her childhood or divorced parents, although she'd queried plenty about his own upbringing. He'd shared, blithely tossing out family moments at her urging. And Diana had relished them, gobbling them up like a kid devouring Halloween treats.

"I already told you my parents are divorced. My father is an architect. He designed the first Paradise Island Resort and Spa, and all the others were modeled after the first. I suspect, in the beginning, my parents made a good team. The business plan and acumen were hers, but my father had a way of turning Mother's visions into reality. He's gifted, creative, and sensitive, while Mother's logical, forward-thinking, and disciplined."

"A perfect match or a perfect foil."

"Precisely. Eventually, they began to drift apart, arguing and fighting with the same fervor I imagine war combatants do. Mother cried and yelled and Father stormed and sulked. I used to take Donna and escape to our backyard playhouse when the arguing seemed as if it would never end, thinking when we returned we might just find one of them dead."

"Jesus, Diana, it was that bad? I can't imagine."

Diana inwardly winced at the sympathy in his tone. She didn't seek or want his sympathy. That wasn't the purpose of this uncomfortable walk down memory lane. And was that not the reason Diana never shared this part of herself with Clark? Would he not have looked upon her as if she was some broken China doll, scarred to her depths because her father had abandoned his family, denying them his love, protection, and presence? And was she not scarred, bruised and battered on an inner level that was hard to discern and easy to hide?

Yes, Diana, at nine, had become an expert at hiding and pretending. Pretending that all in her world was fine and that if only she could be a better sister, better daughter, better friend, and better girlfriend that such willed perfection would manifest in truth, dissolving the sour taste of childhood disillusionment.

"He left, as you already know, and never returned. Not even for his children." That hard-to-deny truth had stung worse than when he'd sworn he would return before walking out their front door. Days, weeks, months and years passed, and Ambrose Prince became more myth than man, more monster than father. For only a monster, a creature of cruel, pitiless neglect, could ignore the daughters he'd fathered.

And sometime between the second and third year of his absence, Diana realized that love did not work that way, that if you truly loved someone, you did not hurt them or cause them immeasurable pain. For Diana, love could be found in honest words and deeds; thus, she strove to live her life in that way. To many, Hippolyta was nothing more than a cold, unfeeling bitch as Diana's father had accused during more than one of their arguments. Yet the woman told no lies, saw no point in such shortsighted manipulations.

Honesty had become Diana's moral code and guiding light. But what happened to such a person when the truth wasn't easy to see or admit to?

"I always saw myself as Hippolyta's daughter only. During middle and high school when the annual father-daughter dance would come around, it was like a jolt to my system. I felt as if I was born of clay, formed by my mother's will, desperation, and love. It was a nicer, more palatable image than the true one that resided in my head, my heart."

And, over time, she'd buried old memories of her father deep within her soul, convinced of her mother's love but her father's indifference.

"After we broke up, I went away for a while."

"For a year," he added, revealing that Hippolyta had disclosed much.

"Yes."

"Where did you go? Did you leave because of me?"

At the second question, his voice had softened to what sounded like guilt. Diana didn't want that from him either. She only desired his ears, nothing more. Not even the forgiveness Dinah thought she wanted.

"I left because of me, Clark," she said, turning to face him, making sure he could see she meant every word. "The two months after you broke up with me, before I decided to travel to Smallville one last time, I thought a lot about our relationship and what had gone wrong to make you turn away from me the way you did."

"I didn't mean to—"

"You did and we both know it. I didn't come here to discuss that with you. I don't want or expect an apology, and it's been far too many years for us to now argue over misunderstandings."

"You should've argued with me then, Diana. You never argued. Hell, we rarely argued in all the time we were together."

Of course, they seldom argued. Diana knew from her parents that arguing only led to more disagreements, unpleasant words and hurt feelings. She intensely disliked the act and avoided it at all cost. But she'd come to realize, during her year away, that lack of arguing was not the same as lack of disagreement. Sometimes in the silence of affectionateness, discontent and animosity could lurk, growing and feeding on itself with no productive outlet.

And she wouldn't bicker with him now, but they could seek better understanding and closure.

"I left because I'd convinced myself that your love for me was never true, that if you'd loved me the way a man should love his woman, you would have never thought me a liar, looked at and spoke to me with open anger and betrayal. Let me please finish, Clark," she said when he opened his mouth, a clear refutation on his lips.

"Fine, but just so you know, when it's my turn I'll have a lot to say."

"And I will respectfully listen."

Clark shifted on the bench, turning away from her and to the ducks and the pond, the children now gone. And Diana knew Clark hadn't missed the unstated message in her last statement. This meeting was not about a conversation, a back and forth dialogue. No, it was about active listening. More importantly, though, it was about adding pieces to an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. This Saturday was Diana's turn; another would be Clark's.

Giving off a false nonchalance, Clark stretched his long legs in front of him, crossed them at the ankles and said, "Go on; I'm listening."

"Like I said, for me, I've always equated love with loving, harmless acts. When I left the Kent farm that last time, I knew that whatever dreams I had of us was never meant to be, that I'd been fooling myself. How could you, a man raised by two loving parents, truly love and commit to a woman whose own father didn't love her enough to stay?"

And every one of her deep-seated scars and insecurities had begun to bleed, blistered and raw with unresolved daddy issues. Then she'd done the unforgivable, not to Clark or even to Bruce, but to herself, shattering the girlish, naive delusion of her own perfection.

Diana wasn't perfect, and she'd proven that to herself in a disgraceful fall from her self-created pedestal. When the opportunity had presented itself, Diana had reached out and grabbed it with both hands, clutching confusion, anger, and hurt to her breast. And she'd willingly eaten from the table of despair, while gulping down large quantities of fermented self-loathing.

And loathe herself she had. Unable to look at Bruce once they had finished, she'd fled the bed, finding the bathroom a safe, quiet place to hide her tears, her shame. Once showering and exiting the bathroom, Bruce had gone, leaving a brief note behind that read simply: _I'm sorry._

Yet it hadn't been Bruce who needed to apologize. It had been her doing, and she'd owned the responsibility, claiming and adding it to her unseen scars.

"A week later I left. And two months after that I found myself on my father's doorstep, a beautiful villa in Patras, his birth city."

Nonchalance gone, Clark turned back to her but wisely said nothing. She appreciated his restraint, respected his effort to abide by their agreement.

"I think if I didn't resemble my mother so much, he wouldn't have known who I was."

After traveling thousands of miles to see a man many Americans would label as a "sperm donor," Diana had hesitated when he'd invited her in. But she'd eventually compelled her legs forward, and out of the blinding darkness that had become her life after his departure, the tiniest glimmer of light began to take form and glow.

Diana had spent three months in Patras, much of it talking and getting to know Ambrose Prince. Who, as she'd discovered, wasn't the vile creature of horns and hooves who'd stalked her dreams for too many years. No, he was but a man, a flawed, lonely man who neither knew how to make amends nor ask for forgiveness, deeming himself unworthy of both.

And it was through those long, teary-eyed talks that Diana's misguided definition and understanding of love had begun to crumble. Love had nothing to do with perfection because perfection simply did not exist. Love was not about always being right, good, or even fair. Love was messy and complicated and damnably painful. And love, yes, was about making mistakes, even hurting the ones you loved most.

Love was regret and sorrow.

Anger and pride.

Honesty and lies.

Love was also tender kisses and shared dreams.

Hope and joy.

Trust and faith.

"Hearing my father's stories helped me to better understand myself, Clark. I don't think I have the words to adequately explain how impactful that visit was on my life."

Having forgotten she was holding a bottle of water, Diana glanced down at the liquid before twisting the cap off and taking several satisfying drinks. Between the warmth of the summer day and the length of her exposition, Diana's mouth was dry.

"Because of him, I grew to see our relationship in a way I hadn't. For all that I never lied to you, Clark; I also never fully opened up to you. I was so concerned about you viewing me with sympathy and not being the perfect girlfriend, I inadvertently built barriers between us, choosing to ignore or minimize concerns I had like your dislike of my mother or the fact that you never invited me to Smallville to meet your parents. And maybe because I ignored your flaws and issues, you chose to ignore mine."

By the time she'd finished, Clark's gaze had grown more intense, heating her on a cellular level, discomfiting because, for once, he seemed to actually see _her_. _No more mask._

"After leaving Greece, I visited a few other places before finally returning home."

That was the truth, as far as it went. He needn't know how else she'd spent her time. When Diana had settled on her course of action, she hadn't done it to please him, or even as a way of assuaging her guilt over sleeping with Bruce two months after Clark had broken up with her. No, she'd done it because a confidence had been shared with her, a confidence that had explained so much about Clark. She'd done it because she wanted Clark to find the same peace she'd found, a peace he desperately needed, a woman's love simply not enough.

He settled back against the bench, and, in the ensuing silence, Diana finished her water.

There was nothing more she wanted to share, no more disassembling of her soul for a man she'd once adored. He probably wanted to know about Bruce, but she was unprepared to mine that part of her heart as well. Some things were meant to stay between a husband and his wife. She'd learned that from her father as well. Too bad Ambrose Prince hadn't learned that a woman's love didn't easily or fully fade. If he had, he may have put aside his pride and garnered the courage to call Hippolyta. _Like Clark did with me._

Unwilling to question or ponder what she did next, Diana crossed the divide and placed her hand over the one resting on Clark's knee. She squeezed it, feeling his strength and warmth.

Clark said nothing, merely accepted the small gesture, unaware of the huge leap she'd just taken with him. But it was all Diana could give. With enlightenment and experience also came new scars. Diana had nothing to offer Clark but a reserved kind of friendship. He needed someone who could appreciate and bask in his light, not a widow with ice in her veins and revenge on her mind.

Diana stood, and Clark peered up at her.

"Alfred will take you wherever you'd like to go, Clark. Thank you for meeting with me and listening."

Clark rose, his frame tall, solid, and utterly masculine.

Diana ignored the disturbing impulse to lay hands on his broad chest.

"I think I'll take a walk down to the pond, or farther if the mood strikes."

"So I guess that's your way of saying our lunch date is over." Clark shrugged, another nonchalant movement Diana didn't believe.

"I think I've bled enough for one day, Clark, don't you?"

"Is that how you see it? Was it so difficult sharing your feelings with me?"

She didn't answer, which, of course, was an answer itself.

"Will you sic your bodyguard on me if I follow you down to the pond? I find, in spite of your attempt to rid yourself of me, that I'm enjoying your company."

To her surprise, Diana gave an indelicate snort of laughter saying, "No one but my family and closest friends enjoy my company nowadays. And even they are known to tire of my melancholic moods.

But she didn't dissuade him when Clark stood next to her, tossing bread from what remained of the finger sandwiches onto the ground for the ducks. And she didn't protest or scurry away when he'd clasped her hands in his, holding them for long seconds before withdrawing from the car when Alfred had parked in front of the inn and Clark had said his goodbye.

And she didn't cancel their next lunch date when Clark had called the day before to confirm. In fact, a part of Diana she decided to give no credence to, actually looked forward to seeing Clark Kent again.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	16. Chapter 15: In Search of Clark Kent

**Chapter 15: In Search of Clark Kent**

**Gotham City, Gotham Inn and Suites**

Standing in front of the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bedroom door, Clark felt like an idiot. Actually, the butterflies in his stomach reminded him of the gangly teenager he'd been when Lana Lang had asked him to the Sadie's Hawkins dance in the ninth grade. He'd waited, in his parents' living room, staring out the window for what felt like an eternity for her father to pick him up and drive them to Smallville High School.

Now, he looked upon his reflection in the mirror, having changed his clothing three times since receiving Diana's phone call. She'd called two hours ago, inquiring as to his plans for the evening. Nearly six hours before that, she'd called to cancel their luncheon. The old Clark would've thought Diana was blowing him off, that she viewed him as less important than her wealthy business associates. The newly constructed Clark, however, didn't create minefields where there were none. He didn't permit insecurity to sow doubt.

No, for once, his lens of perception of Diana was clear, no longer full of smudges that impaired true vision. If Diana's morning meeting hadn't actually gone longer than she'd anticipated and she just wanted an excuse to break their lunch date, she would've had Talia, her secretary, to call him. But Diana had slipped away from her meeting to call Clark personally. No, Diana was true to her word. Clark may have wished for a bit more enthusiasm from her, but the woman was not stepping away from their bargain. She'd had her turn, and tonight would be his.

Eyeing his image, Clark inwardly kicked himself for being so foolish. After changing his clothing three times, he'd wound up back in the same blue jeans, tennis shoes, and pull-over collared gray shirt he'd started out with. He sighed. Constructing Clark Kent was a work in progress.

When he and Diana were a couple, Clark had thrown off the Smallville farm clothing for a more city polished look. The kind of clothes he thought a woman like Diana would expect from her boyfriend. _A woman like Diana_. And hadn't that been the problem right there? In truth, he hadn't known if Diana cared about such things. She'd never said, and, based on her economic status, he'd assumed. But hadn't that been his modus operandi throughout their relationship? Hadn't Clark drawn conclusion after conclusion about Diana and her friends and family simply based on what he thought he knew about rich people?

Clark had to come to terms with this hard truth the past three years. Even while he never stopped loving Diana, he had also held onto those old insecurities and beliefs, blaming her for their breakup, blaming her for the distance between himself and his parents.

Clark tucked his shirt into his pants, and then buckled his belt. Satisfied, he left the bedroom just in time to hear a soft rap on the door. Quelling the burst of anticipation, Clark calmly walked to the door and opened it.

And there she was, tall, regal, and unapologetically all woman, beautifully made, this woman of heat and ice. Oh, yes, Diana Wayne exuded both, a sexy scary combination that had Clark envisioning her in skintight black leather. Whip in hand, six-inch heels taunting him, her husky dominatrix voice telling him, "If you're good, I'll give you the pleasure of washing my feet with your tongue."

"We don't have all night, Kent. Either you move aside and let us in or I'll drive Diana home. It's late, and she's had a long day."

Ah, nothing like the cold shower of another man's grumpy voice to douse the flames of a perfectly good daydream.

"Sorry about that. Of course, come in." Clark stepped aside, permitting Diana then Steve Trevor to enter.

Before Clark could greet Diana properly, Trevor said to her, "Let me do a quick sweep of the place." And he did, striding to the bedroom first. Bemused, Clark could do nothing but watch the uptight bodyguard look under and behind everything in Clark's small suite. Who or what he thought Clark had hidden, he didn't venture to guess.

Diana, for her part, appeared nonplussed. In fact, she looked rather bored with Trevor's overprotective show.

Clark turned to Diana and whispered, "Does he think I'm a threat to you?"

"He doesn't know you. And it's his job. I try not to interfere with how Steve chooses to perform his duties. Unless," she said, her aqua blue eyes squinting with the sheerest hint of rebellion, "it interferes with me performing mine."

"All is clear, Diana," Trevor said from behind Clark. He hadn't even heard the tall, lean man approach. Clark shifted, not wanting someone that dangerous behind him.

"Of course, it is. Clark offers no physical threat to me."

_Physical threat_? No, he wasn't, but she'd felt a need to add the word "physical" to her statement. Did she view him as a different kind of threat?

"I need to make a quick phone call; may I use your bedroom?"

"Of course. Go right ahead."

Clark watched her go, closing the door after she'd entered. Trevor watched as well, him not Diana.

"Whatever you have to say, just say it, Trevor. I'm tired of your silent eyes stalking my every move."

Those eyes narrowed even more. But Clark was used to them by now. He got it, the guy was Diana's bodyguard and he didn't know Clark from Adam. Trevor obviously didn't trust him. _Fair enough. _But he also didn't seem to like him very much. It had taken Clark all of one day to figure out why.

"I remember you from the hospital. You were there with the others, waiting for news on the Waynes."

"So what." Of course he had been there. Only death could've kept him away.

"You ran away. I saw you. I saw you stand on the outside of her hospital room door, listening to her mourn the loss of her husband and baby girl. And you left, turned away and left."

Scornful, judging eyes stared back at Clark now. Trevor's accusing orbs were no less than his own had been three years ago. And if Clark stared long enough in the mirror, remnants of the guilt for his actions stared back at him. But his guilt and his journey of self-reflection and self-redemption was none of the bodyguard's business.

"I'm here now."

"Three years too late."

"Or just in time." Clark glanced at the bedroom door. It was still closed, and he could just make out Diana's soft voice. He turned back to Trevor. "You care for Diana."

Trevor, too, swung his gaze to the door then back to Clark. "More than you ever could. I was here when you were not. You couldn't handle her then and you can't handle her now."

Clark almost felt sorry for the guy. Trevor didn't understand Diana. Even as an insecure young man, Clark knew full well that the best he could ever hope for was to keep up with her. Only a military moron would use the word "handle" to refer to Diana. But Steve Trevor was right about one thing, Clark had abandoned Diana. When it became too tough, like when his father died, Clark had run away, leaving Diana to fend for herself. John Stewart had been right back then. He had been a coward.

But no longer.

"It must hurt," Clark began, hating what he was about to say but knowing if he didn't deal with this now, Trevor would continue to be a thorn in his side, "loving a woman who will never love you back."

Trevor blinked, surprised, but his eyes remained just as hard as marble.

"She doesn't even know how you feel about her. You work with her every day, and I can tell she values and respects you. But Diana doesn't _see_ you, at least not in the way you would like her to."

"You know _nothing_." Trevor, the calm bodyguard, began to show the slightest signs of agitation, his voice betraying him first. "Once you've finished that biography, you'll leave again, just like you did three years ago."

"No, I won't."

Trevor shook his head at Clark, the older man's opinion of him seeming to slip even further. "You have nothing to offer her, nothing she doesn't already own or could buy herself. At least I can protect her, keep her safe, just as I've done for three years."

A familiar sting began, the reminder that Clark came from meager beginnings. But he refused to swallow the rusty hook, refused to allow even a single foothold of uncertainty into his new outlook on life and self. Clark wouldn't be baited. He owed this man no explanation.

But Clark wasn't so positive or arrogant as to claim that Diana would open her heart and mind to the possibility of a new start with him. Maybe, like Steve Trevor, Clark could only hope to earn Diana's respect, perhaps even trust. And wouldn't that be a success of sorts? Must he have all of her to be happy, fulfilled?

"For as long as Diana needs me . . . wants me . . . I'll stay."

Trevor snorted. "You have no idea what she needs or wants. Hell, you don't even know her anymore. You—"

The opening of the bedroom door silenced Trevor. His eyes softened when Diana exited and their eyes met, transforming him into something annoyingly handsome.

"Were you speaking to Vic?"

"Yes." Diana drew closer, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow morning. Right now I need to speak with Clark."

The woman did have a way with dismissing people without actually using the words.

"I'll be ready in an hour."

Trevor's smile vanished like a ghost ship in the night. "Are you sure?"

The way Diana looked at Trevor sent the man back three steps. What in the world made him think he could "handle" Diana was beyond Clark.

Without a word, Trevor, shoulders not as rigid as before, made his way to the front door, opened it, and left.

"So I guess that means I only have an hour?"

Yeah, because Clark knew her directive to Steve was also meant for him. This Diana was as sharply tailored as the blue pinstriped business skirt suit she wore, a white silk blouse the only color in the ensemble. And her hair, the luscious black tresses he used to love to wash and brush, were, once again, restrained in a conservative bun.

Diana looked the part of Business Woman of the Year, which she humbly earned last year. And his jeans and tennis were in stark contrast to her expensively put-together outfit, giving her the false armor of invulnerability.

And that was all it was, an armor. When she'd casually slipped from her jacket and shoes and sat on his sofa as if it were her after work routine, Clark couldn't help but smile with relief. This was the Diana he wanted to speak with, the Diana who had spoken so honestly to him at the park over a week ago.

Not wanting to take too many liberties, Clark sat on the sofa, as well, leaving one cushion length between them.

"Have you had dinner?" he asked, thinking if she'd come straight from work, she probably did not have time to pick something up to eat. "We could order, if you like."

"Alfred is worse than a mother hen. He makes sure I'm well fed and the frig in my office well stocked."

"I would've thought your secretary would take care of such details."

"Talia's my Executive Assistant, and Alfred nor Steve would permit her within a hundred feet of my food or drink."

"Well, that's weird. It sounds like you don't trust the woman." That didn't make any sense to Clark, especially since Talia seemed friendly and competent.

"I don't trust her."

"Then why does she work for you?"

"Because she was provided a stellar recommendation from a man so arrogant he thinks all others are complete idiots."

None of this made any sense to Clark. Anyone who knew Diana would know the woman was far from an idiot. But that still didn't explain why Diana would hire a woman she knew she couldn't trust.

"There's a story behind all of this, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me?"

"Not tonight, Clark. Tonight is about you not the machinations of ambitious men and a cutthroat woman." Drawing her legs onto the sofa, Diana turned to him. "Thank you for understanding about lunch, and for seeing me this evening. I promised you we'd talk today and I hate to break my promises."

This was more of Diana's honesty. How could he have never noticed this about her before? How could he have ever thought her capable of lying to him? But he knew, of course he now knew.

"You'll talk and I will listen. That was our deal."

"You don't have to make it sound like it's a contract, Diana."

She said nothing, which, for Diana, said everything. She would not interrupt him. Diana had come because she'd promised. She'd come because he had given her the opportunity to share a part of herself she'd kept from him when they were together, and she, being the egalitarian person she was, wished to extend the same opportunity to him.

Okay, fine, he could do this, butterflies notwithstanding. _No wonder Diana didn't eat the last time. If her stomach felt anything like mine, she would not have been able to keep the food down._

Clark cleared his throat. "You're probably not aware, but my wife and I divorced almost three years ago."

He waited.

She said nothing, not even an affect that would give him some clue to her thoughts or feelings.

"Her name's Lois Lane."

"Your agent."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"It was she whom Bruce contacted when he decided he wanted you to be the one to write the biography about his father."

Yes, and Lois hadn't told him until she'd turned the offer down. And that had been the worst argument of their marriage.

"I'm sorry about the dissolution of your marriage."

Ah, there was emotion there, although her tone was flat, dry.

"Lois told the judge we had 'irreconcilable differences.' I suppose she was right. Our marriage wasn't at all what it should have been. I blame myself for that. I could've been a better husband. I should have been a better husband."

Clark wondered if Diana even cared why he hadn't been a better husband, or whether she assumed that he hadn't been a good husband because he hadn't been the best of boyfriends, which was, in retrospect, mostly true.

"I spent the last three years reconstructing my life. No, no," he shook his head, "that's not exactly true. I spent that time constructing Clark, digging through the layers of the me I thought I knew to find the real Clark Kent. It wasn't easy, Diana. I had no idea how many layers of bullshit I'd hidden under. How much of myself I kept from not only family and friends but from myself." His laugh was sad and mocking. "That was the most pathetic realization of all, that I so freely lied to myself, forming a reality that reinforced my insecurities and fears."

Recalling good manners, Clark asked, "Would you like something to drink? Water? Juice? Wine?"

"No thank you. But if you need a break, I understand."

Clark peeked at his watch. He'd used ten minutes already. "If I take one, will you subtract the time from my hour?"

"I'm not as anal as all that, Clark. But you don't require a break, and neither do I. Please, go on."

"Okay."

This would be easier if Diana wasn't so coldly focused, if she would reveal an ember of the warmth Clark sensed just below her taut demeanor.

"I won't bore you with the details of my failed marriage, but suffice it to say, Lois had good reason for getting rid of me. I was a mess and didn't even know it. I had lived most of my life under a crippling fear."

Taking a chance, Clark slid closer to Diana.

Not surprising, she said nothing nor shied away, her face as bland as ever.

"I want you to know that I heard everything you told me that Saturday. I mean, I really listened to what you had to say. And it made so much sense, explained so much about our relationship, especially in light of my newfound understanding of self."

Pushing his luck, Clark fingered a stray lock of hair then tucked it behind Diana's ear.

And, yes, she blushed, faint and quickly gone, but it had been there. _Not so cold after all, are you, Diana?_

"I know we agreed that you would listen while I talked, but I find that a conversation is needed for this next part. Will you converse with me, Diana?"

"Go on."

Just like that, no unsure pause or trepidation. Diana was an emotional warrior, more so than he would be if he'd suffered all that she had.

"Well, what I discovered was that the more I learned about me, the more I understood you and our relationship."

"I don't understand."

"Tell me, Diana, when did you first contact my parents?"

"If you've posed the question, you clearly already know. But I'll tell you. It was during our senior year in college. I wanted to surprise you and travel to Kansas for your graduation but you never gave me the details, so I called your parents."

"But you never came." And he knew why. He hadn't invited her. In fact, over the years, he'd shun her every overture to meet his family and to visit his home, until she'd stopped asking all together.

"No, Clark, I never did. You made it clear you didn't want me there."

"And you blamed yourself, thinking you were the reason why I didn't want you to meet my parents, see my hometown?"

God, he had been so stupid then, hurting her when it was his shortcomings that stood in their way.

"I thought you would realize what a mistake you'd made hooking up with me if you saw where I came from. I thought if you saw with your own eyes that I grew up on a farm that you would see how little we had in common and how much I didn't fit into your world."

Shameful thoughts, he knew. They were feelings he wasn't proud of.

"That was an insult to me and your parents, Clark. I wasn't the shallow woman you clearly thought me to be, nor is there anything disreputable about a rural upbringing."

And if Clark wanted to get an emotional rise out of Diana, well, he had it now.

Anger.

Disappointment.

"I know."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't. Not then. I should've known better. I treated you and my parents horribly. Worse, I blamed you for my poor actions. When my father died, I was so ashamed about how little time I'd spent at the farm since moving to Cambridge to live with you. And instead of owning up to it, I blamed you. I convinced myself that you were the one who'd kept me from them, that you were trying to turn me into something I wasn't."

Blue eyes were now nearly black with a myriad of emotions. For so long Clark had refused to accept any culpability. Even when he'd frantically called Diana's cell phone after he'd driven her away, begging Bruce to give her the phone, Clark didn't have the words to undo what he had done. He didn't possess the awareness of self and his own motivations that he did now. So what would he have said to her if she'd answered the phone? Hell, until six months ago, he'd still thought Diana was involved in him receiving the scholarship, which, showed him he still had a lot to learn about himself and the woman he'd once asked to be his wife.

And what kind of marriage would they have had back then? _A marriage that wouldn't have weathered the test of time._ How could it have been anything but, with so much unsaid and deep misunderstandings between them?

"I think, Clark," Diana said with open sadness, "that we never knew each other at all. Maybe we were both in love with the idea of being in love. Maybe we had nothing between us but lust."

"You can't believe that." God, he hoped she didn't believe that.

"It's been a decade; I no longer know what was real and what was false. And does it even matter now?"

"It matters to me. And I think it matters to you. Do you not want to at least try to be friends, Diana? Is the thought of being my friend of little importance to you?"

"You want more than my friendship," she whispered. "I cannot give you that. I don't know how to give you that."

Clark inwardly smiled. Did Diana even know the contradictory words she'd just spoken? Squashing the sliver of hope, Clark said, "There are two reasons I know that what we felt for each other was real, built on an emotional quick sand, true, but real, Diana. So very real."

"What are those reasons?"

As grumpy and as annoyed as she was, Diana was at least listening and openly engaging him in a conversation it was clear she'd rarely not be having. The sliver of hope grew.

"One, for my part, even though I thought you'd lied to me, I continued to think of you as the woman who had stolen my heart. I compared every other female to you, and they never measured up. For years, I tried to push you from my heart and mind, but you remained."

"Don't say that, Clark."

"Why, because it's true? Or because you married Bruce and loved him in a way that I should've loved my own spouse? That wasn't your fault. Again, that was mine. I should've let you go."

"Why didn't you?"

Very good question, one he'd asked himself numerous times.

"The second reason I know our love was true was that you, after how shabbily I ended our engagement, found my birth parents."

Briefly, Diana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them she said, "I never wanted you to know it was me who'd found them."

And that had been what else she'd done during her year abroad. During her own journey toward self, she'd taken the time to help him find his own peace.

"Two years after we'd broken up, I received a letter from my birth parents. I had no idea how they'd found me, nor did I really care. As far as I was concerned, they'd abandoned me. I didn't want to read anything they had to say."

"You know, Clark," Diana said, rubbing her temples the way people tended to do when they were dealing with a person trying their patience, "I could happily smack you for being so damn stubborn and self-righteous."

Yeah, well, Lois had smacked him—twice—for the same reasons.

"Were you not even curious as to what they had to say? Didn't you want to know why they put you up for adoption?"

He had wanted to know. His whole life had revolved around him not knowing, always feeling as if it was somehow his fault, and fearing that those he most loved, like the Kents and Diana, would leave him, too.

"I was afraid," he admitted.

Like a retreating tide, Diana's bout of anger receded. Her own confession of, "I was also afraid when I went to my father's home," warming his heart. "I sat in my car for two hours before mustering the nerve to knock on the door."

Well, it had taken him considerably longer to read the letter, but once he had, Clark could begin, in earnest, his construction. He'd known, once Lois had left him, that his feelings and thoughts about his birth parents would forever haunt and tarnish his life. He'd given their abandonment so much power over him, power no event or person deserved. And he had allowed it to ruin an engagement and a marriage. And, to his undying shame, he'd permitted it to prevent him from fully appreciating all that Martha and Jonathan Kent had done for him.

"This is what I've come to know, Diana. After reading that letter, I was a changed man. All my questions were there, handwritten in a neat script. They were scientist in the communist country of Krypton. They were held, like other Kryptonian scientists who were the best in their field, and forced to work on nuclear weapons and other weapons of mass destruction. With the help of a couple of sympathetic guards, they managed to escape and flee to the United States. Two years later, I came along. But they were here illegally, Diana, too afraid to seek political asylum, too afraid of being sent back."

She touched his hand, providing comfort he didn't entirely feel he deserved. He'd been such a fool for so long, a child's pain crippling the man he should have been. The man he was now.

"When I was five and they had to enroll me in school, they became fearful they'd get caught. They had no family here, and they pretty much stayed to themselves, thinking friends a dangerous risk not worth taking. They never knew how, but an immigration officer came to our home, sniffing around and asking questions. The next day, they left. After two months on the run, they decided they didn't want me to live that kind of life, thought it unfair."

"So they gave you away so you could have a better life than what they thought they could offer you?"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"They loved you, Clark. It had to hurt terribly for them to let you go."

Diana sank back against the cushions, eyes cast down, her mood suddenly but understandably sullen.

He'd misjudged so much in his life, focusing on what he didn't have instead of what he did. And he'd paid for it, but so did Diana. In some respects, she was still paying for it.

"All these years, I assumed Kara was behind the letter, that she'd somehow found them the way she'd found me. I never asked her because I didn't want to know, or feel obligated to reach out to them because she'd gone to so much effort on my behalf."

While Diana continued to stare down at her lap, Clark knew she was still listening to him.

"It wasn't until after I met with Hippolyta that I began to understand. At least I thought I understood. Since you and Kara were friends, I thought she must've been the one to tell you of my adoption and the name of my birth parents."

Diana shook her head, confirming what he'd learned six months ago.

"Ma told you."

Diana looked up and nodded. "I worried about her after her husband passed away, so I would call every now and again to check on her."

Diana had done more than that. She'd maintained an ongoing relationship with his mother before they broke up and well after.

"When was the last time the two of you spoke?"

"Does it matter?"

Everything about Diana mattered. For every new bit of information he'd learned about her, the more he'd discovered about himself. She was the reason he was able to put himself back together, to find the peace that had eluded him for all of his life. She, the woman who'd he'd accused of lying and manipulating him, had forged a lasting friendship with his mother. A friendship his mother valued so deeply that she'd kept it from him.

"Why did you purchase the farm?"

"I guess you now know all of my secrets." She glanced at the cell phone she held in her hand. "There are only five minutes left, Clark, not nearly enough time to have the conversation you'd like to have."

"Just tell me why. Please."

"I thought tonight was supposed to be about you."

"This is about me. Don't you see? I've spent three years in search of Clark Kent. And every time I turned a corner, you were there. In searching for me, I also found you, the sweet, loving Diana who had been there all the time, the giving girl who loved me even when I didn't know how to love myself. You were there, and I was blind. You gave and I took without full comprehension or gratitude."

"I never wanted your gratitude, and I don't wish it now. Financially, I had more than I ever needed, more than I knew what to do with. Your parents wished to retire but the market was bad. No one wanted to buy the farm for what it was truly worth, so I purchased it. I never told Martha, but I suspected that after Jonathan's death that she'd figured it out. She implied that she knew but never asked me directly."

"And what did you do with the land?"

"If I had known this would turn into an interrogation, I would've left with Steve." Diana stood then slipped into her heels and blazer. "If you must know, Clark, I hired workers to maintain the farm and all the proceeds go to the Kansas City Orphanage, the institution that placed you with the Kents." Locating her black purse, she opened it and tossed her phone within. "You own the farmhouse, Clark. I was going to give you the signed deed for a wedding gift."

But they hadn't married. Instead, Clark had spurned her love and Diana had married someone else.

Clark got to his feet and caught Diana before she reached the door.

"I'm sorry."

She put up one hand. "Don't."

"But I am. I'm so very sorry."

"It was a long time ago. It no longer matters."

"It wasn't that long ago, and I think that was the first lie you've told me. It does matter, Diana. To me. To you. If it didn't, neither one of us would be here."

"It shouldn't matter, not now."

"But it does."

Clark wanted to reach out and pull her to him, so desperately did she look as if she needed a hug. Diana held herself erect and emotionally distant. But she didn't leave, didn't fling herself through his door or his apology back into his face.

"I. Am. Sorry. Please, forgive me."

"You don't need my forgiveness, Clark."

"But I want it. We'll never escape the past if you're unable to forgive me. Can you?"

She said nothing but she held his gaze and searched his face.

"Life is comprised of imperfect beings, Clark, some more imperfect than others. What you did, while painful, doesn't compare to the imperfection of others, nor are your actions unforgivable. We had similar fears and insecurities, Clark, we just handled them differently. I turned mine inward, you turned yours outward, neither healthy."

"So you forgive me?" He needed her to say the words.

"The new Clark Kent is awfully pushy. I'm not sure how I feel about that. But, yes, for what it's worth, I forgive you."

Without thinking, Clark crushed Diana to him, hugging her the way he'd wanted to since the first day he'd walked into her office and she'd looked at him with haughty disdain.

And he hugged her.

And hugged her.

And hugged her.

He waited for her to push him away, or for her to give him a curt command of, "Kindly release me, Mr. Kent, you've exceeded your sixty minutes." But Diana said nothing, nor did she attempt to extricate herself from his hearty embrace. And, damn, did she feel right in his arms, warm and soft and intoxicating.

So he continued to hug her, unfazed by the fact that her arms lay tense at her sides. That was okay, he'd probably shocked her.

"Thank you, Diana."

And the woman said nothing. Her silences could bring a man to his knees.

A knock on the door forced Clark to let her go. And still she said nothing, just waited for him to open the door to an impatient Steve Trevor.

Trevor looked between the silent Diana and Clark, who, despite himself, couldn't help smiling. She'd forgiven him and permitted him to touch her. That was a hell of a coup for an evening. Maybe he could try for a third. Best to strike why the poor woman was still in a state of shock, because once she regained her wits, she may just revert back to the Devil that Wore Prada mask she donned so easily.

"There is a new ancient Egyptian exhibit at the Gotham Museum. I plan to check it out next weekend. Would you like to go with me? I know how much you love antiquities."

Clark ignored Trevor and his over-my-dead-body glare.

"Just as friends," he quickly added when he'd thought her ready to refuse. "Just as friends. We can meet there, no pressure."

"Just as friends," she repeated.

"Yup, just friends. I'll call you with the details."

She paused, then slowly nodded as if she weren't quite sure what she was agreeing to.

And his smile grew exponentially, in direct contrast to Trevor's frown.

She walked past him and out into the hallway, Trevor protectively and possessively beside her.

"Good night, Clark."

"Good night, Diana. Thank you for the talk."

She began to walk away then stopped and said, "It's not a date."

"Of course it isn't."

"I'm serious, Clark, don't think of it as a date."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

The look she shot him called him a liar. Good, because it was _so_ a date. And, for all her protestations, she had agreed anyway.

Clark closed the door once Diana and Trevor had turned the corner. Then he went to his bedroom closet and stared at the clothes hanging within. _Now, what am I going to wear on my date?_

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	17. Chapter 16: Sister to Sister

**Chapter 16: Sister-to-Sister**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

Donna flopped onto Diana's bed and howled with laughter. "You're unbelievable, sis. Sixty minutes. You're officially worse than Mother." The laughter continued, and Donna wiped away the tears that had spilled from her amused blue eyes, uncaring that Diana found no humor in the retelling of the details of her conversation with Clark.

She should've known better than to give her sister that kind of ammunition. When would she ever learn? Donna, as bright as she was beautiful, had the power to make one love her with fierce intensity one minute and want to throttle her in the very next. Right now, as Diana gazed down at her still giggling sister, throttling seemed like an excellent way to silence the youngest Prince daughter.

"Poor Clark. He poured out his heart to you and all you could think to do was to put the man on a stopwatch." Donna sat up and crossed her long legs and bare feet. "Was it really that bad, Diana? Did confronting your past discomfort you that much?"

Ah, another Donna Prince trademark, going from the absurd to the serious in the blink of an eye.

Removing her own shoes, Diana climbed into the bed with her sister. Many a night, when they were girls, Donna would find her way to Diana's bedroom and into her bed. For the first six months after their fathered had left, Donna, who had been such an independent child, could no longer sleep through the night in her own bed. So, she'd taken to creeping into Diana's, which, in truth, Diana needed the familiar security and comfort just as much as her baby sister did. And when Donna had cried for their father, it was Diana who'd wiped away her tears, wishing they were tears of laughter instead.

Reclining on her back, Diana looked up at her sister. And, in her tranquil smile, saw all the goodness the world had to offer, goodness that was hard to detect amid such ugliness and despair. Both had touched Diana, grabbed onto her with their slimy tentacles of death and pulled her into their murky depths, bypassing flesh and bone and feasting directly on her heart and soul.

"Don't do that, Diana. I hate when you do that."

Diana opened eyes she hadn't known she'd closed. "I didn't mean to."

"You never mean to. That's part of the problem. I thought having Clark back in your life would help you get past all of that."

"He's not 'back' in my life, at least not in the way you mean. And 'all of that' is my life, not something I can easily get past."

"I didn't mean to make it seem as if getting over the death of your husband and daughter is as easy as putting on lipstick. You know that's not what I meant. I'm only saying that I miss my sister and want her back."

"I'm right here; haven't gone anywhere."

"Physically only, but not emotionally, nor even spiritually, don't play those word games with me. We know each other too well."

Donna may have been seven years Diana's junior, but they were as close as any siblings could be without being twins. And Donna, no matter how deeply Diana retreated within herself, was always there to pull her out, tossing a lasso of truth around Diana's waist and hauling her grieving butt to the surface, gasping for air but alive.

"So tell me what's up with you and Clark. Alfred tells me the two of you have gone on three dates over the last month."

Diana barely stopped from rolling her eyes. For all his uptight British manners, Alfred was Gotham's most reliable snitch. Commissioner Gordon would do well to make Alfred Pennyworth a paid informant, because the unassuming butler knew more than his fair share about other people's business.

"We aren't dating. They were collegial outings."

"'Collegial outings?'" Donna snorted then smiled. "Damn, sis, you really need to get horizontal."

Diana thought about her current position on the bed and her sister's mocking grin, and said, just to rankle, "Why Donna, I believe I'm horizontal now. _With you_."

Donna laughed. "You can be such a trying bitch sometimes."

"I think that's a trait we both inherited from Mother."

Donna laughed harder, the tears returning. "Oh, I'm so going to tell her what you said the next time you give me grief about . . . about . . . well, about all the things you like to tell me I shouldn't be doing."

"Like drinking and driving? Having sex in Mother's bed? Calling in a bomb threat to your school the day of senior finals? Posting a picture of our neighbor on Facebook tanning in the nude on his back porch, his wife's sister between his legs?"

"Stop. Stop. I get the point, and curse your freakishly long memory. Sometimes I hate you," she pouted.

"And I love you, more than you will ever know."

"And I hate when you tell me you love me after I've done or said something awful."

"It's a strategy known to older sisters the world over."

And the smile was back, as Diana meant it to be. And she did so very much love her little sister. Without Donna, Diana's childhood would've been unbearable. Without Donna, Diana would've known so little happiness these past three years. She was her personal ray of mischievous sunshine that brightened her day even when Diana wanted nothing more than to wallow in darkness. Gratefully, the darkest of those days were past.

"Anyway, about the sex."

Diana shook her head. "No, no, I don't want to talk about sex."

"Well, if you were actually having sex then maybe you'd have something to talk about."

"You and Dinah really need to stay out of my love life."

"Hate to break this to you, sis, but you don't have a love life. But that can be easily remedied."

"I'm not going to hook up with some random guy just to have sex and to get you and Dinah off my back."

"Who in the hell's talking about random? You have two perfectly good options right under your patrician nose."

Diana assumed one of the men Donna was talking about was Clark, but that wasn't going to happen. Too much had transpired between them for them to try to recapture what they used to have. Then again, a dissenting voice reminded her, what they used to have was built on a rocky structure of youthful mistakes. They were experienced adults now; the structure they could create wouldn't have to be the same unsteady one that had toppled at the first gust of wind.

"Clark and who else?"

"Dinah was right, you're clueless. Steve, of course."

Diana waved that notion away with a dismissive hand, the same way she did when Dinah had made the ludicrous statement. "Steve is my bodyguard, head of Wayne security, and my friend. Nothing more."

"He's also completely in love with you."

"Doubtful. I would know."

"Beyond Wayne business, you pay attention to very little, Diana, least of all men."

"I would know," she repeated, already unconvinced that she would indeed know if a man had taken an interest in her. Donna was correct; her laser focus was the business and the people she sought to save and rescue through her business dealings. And Steve had allowed her to concentrate on her missions so thoroughly because she didn't have to worry about her physical safety. Was it possible? And, if so, what should she do about it?

She must've zoned out too long, the flow of her thoughts evident in her eyes because Donna patted her hand and said, "Do you see it now?"

"Not really. I'm not sure. He's never said anything or even asked me out."

"Maybe he was just waiting for you to be ready. I mean, he did meet you at the lowest point in your life. Steve would have to have been a total ass to hit on a grieving widow. But it's been three years now, maybe he'll take the initiative and tell you how he feels, because lord knows you'll never make the first move."

Diana didn't know how to integrate this new information into her existing understanding of the very clear way she thought of her relationship with Steve Trevor. Neither Dinah nor Donna was given to exaggeration. They liked to harass her, sure, in a you-need-to-loosen-up kind of way. But they were smart, perceptive women whose opinions Diana trusted and respected. Still, she just couldn't imagine that Steve, her salt-and-pepper haired bodyguard felt more for her than he did any other person under his protection.

"For a man in his early forties, Steve is damn easy on the eyes, and he exudes sexual confidence."

_Exudes sexual confidence? What the hell?_

"I've never looked at him in that way before." She glared at her twenty-seven year old sister. "And why are you paying a man nearly fifteen years your senior that much attention?"

Donna shrugged. "Hot is hot, no matter the age."

"Steve Trevor is not hot." At least she didn't think he was. "Well," she hedged, "I've actually never thought about it before."

"Well, maybe you should."

It didn't matter whether she did or not. Diana wasn't going to have sex with Steve, no matter how hot Donna and Dinah thought he was.

"I don't want to talk about Steve anymore. Just drop it; that's a dead end."

"Only because you're making it that way. So, if not Steve then Clark. Now you're not going to tell me you haven't noticed how hot thirty-something Clark is."

Ah, no, Diana couldn't claim that because Clark was as handsome as ever. _Damn him._

"I don't want to talk about Clark either."

"Fine," Donna huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "What do you want to talk about?"

Diana sat up and faced her sister. "I want you to tell me why you're in Gotham two weeks before the monthly board meeting."

Donna began to fidget, which was never a good sign but she eventually said, "Does Vic have a girlfriend?"

_This again._ "I don't know, Donna. I don't know that any more than I know whether he wears briefs or boxers, which, by the way, I have no idea why you thought I would know something so personal about my head of Research and Design."

Donna's shoulders slumped, the confident young woman having disappeared behind a wall of female insecurity. Diana knew the feeling all too well.

"Ah, sweetie, why don't you just talk to him?"

"I've tried. He just politely nods and talks shop."

"Maybe, Donna, if you stopped calling Vic Cyborg every time you saw him, he would be more inclined to have a normal conversation with you."

Donna chuckled lightly then lifted her head. "It's funny and he needs to get a sense of humor. Besides, he works with cybernetics and gives off this Robocop thing sometimes. It's so damn sexy."

Donna Prince and Victor Stone, on the surface, were complete opposites. But they were both intelligent, dedicated people who were loyal to their friends and family and had a justice streak a mile long, which, for Diana's board and her mission, was critical.

"Do you think," Donna began, an unsure quaver to her voice, "that he's not interested because he doesn't date white women?"

Diana scratched her forehead, surprised it had taken Donna this long to bring it up.

"I mean, the fact that he's African American doesn't matter to me."

Diana thought about that, more importantly, she remembered all that Clark had shared with her about dating a woman whose family had so much more money than his own did. For her, the economic differences mattered little. In truth, she rarely gave it a second thought. Yet, for Clark, it was of utmost importance to him, impacting his life in ways that Diana never even considered.

"What I've come to recently understand, sis, is that a fish doesn't know it's in water."

"Have you been into the brandy again, Diana. What in the hell does fish have to do with me and Vic?"

"My point is that for fish water is normal. They don't recognize the water because it's part of their natural environment. But for others, humans for example, when we enter their domain we notice every little thing, feel like an outsider. We don't fully fit in because the environment isn't totally made for us. We have to adapt in order to survive."

When she'd dated Clark, she'd been the fish, unaware of the water in which she swam, her blinders of privilege and entitlement firmly in place. Even though Diana could care less about Clark having grown up on a farm or whether he was able to afford a graduate education or wore fashionable clothes, class distinctions were true, real, and unfairly impacting to those of the working class, like the Kents.

"I think if you're really serious about a relationship with Vic, you need to first understand what it will mean for him to date a white woman. Even though you may not judge him based on his race, others have and will. Racism is a reality he cannot shake simply because he chooses to date someone of a different race. If you aren't willing or capable of understanding that and his experience being an African American in a country that hasn't always treated people of color fairly, then you may want to reconsider."

"Is that what happened between you and Clark? Were you unable to understand his experiences?"

Diana nodded. "Yes, and I never knew what I didn't know. I was blind in so many ways, even when the truth stared me in the face. He should've told me how he felt, but I should've also seen, been more sensitive and supportive." Diana caressed her sister's cheek. "I don't want you to repeat my mistake, sweetie. I didn't mean to, but I hurt Clark. Lack of intent does not mitigate impact, Donna. And Vic doesn't deserve to be hurt, and you don't need the guilt if you do."

"Thank you." Donna hugged Diana. "I really like him, Diana, and I think he likes me too, when I'm not being a pain in his ass, at least."

"Then talk to him. Really talk to him."

Donna pulled back. "Is that what you and Clark have been doing on your dates? Talking?"

Diana didn't have it in her to correct Donna about them dating. It wouldn't matter what Diana said. Donna, like all the Prince women, were too stubborn by half.

"Yes. But I've also been thinking a lot And I now realize that I played a greater role in our breakup than I'd thought or wanted to believe. Ripping away blinders is a humbling experience."

"I was sad for you when you and Clark stopped seeing each other. I really liked him, thought you two made a good couple, and with both your tall bodies and dark hair, I just knew you'd have the cutest black haired babies."

As soon as the words were out, Donna immediately slapped her hand over her open mouth. "God, I'm so sorry, Diana. I can't believe I said that. We haven't talked like sisters in such a long time that I forgot to be . . ."

"Cautious? Don't worry about it." Diana got up from the bed. "Look, I have a conference call in thirty minutes, and I need to read over a few notes before it begins."

Donna also stood, her face flushed red with concern and guilt. Diana did not want her sister to feel guilty, nor should she have to monitor everything she said to her. She wouldn't break down at the mere mention of dark haired babies, even though her mother had described Brina to Diana when she'd awoken from the coma. And the baby had had hair the color of midnight.

"I'm sorry, Diana, don't shut down on me again. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, I'm fine. I just don't have time to talk. I'll see you at dinner." Diana swiftly walked away from her sister and toward her bedroom door. "If you need anything, ask Alfred because I'll be indisposed for the next two hours."

Without waiting for Donna's reply, Diana left the bedroom, tears stinging her eyes. But this time, she cried not for the child she and Bruce had lost but for the children she too dreamed of having with Clark. Children they would never have together.

No, they weren't dating, but they were learning how to forgive.

Each other.

Themselves.

And that would have to be enough.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	18. CH 17: Spoken Mission, Silent Challenge

**Chapter 17: Spoken Mission, Silent Challenge**

**Washington, D.C.**

**Amnesty International Human Rights Conference**

Steve Trevor, while engaged in a conversation with Jose Hernandez, a renowned human rights activist, his astute focus was not on what the sixty-year old man was droning on and on about. Child slave labor, while important and deserving of anyone's undivided attention, Steve only managed the compulsory nod of the head a "yes" or "hmmm" at the right interval and the man was none the wiser.

Activist, Steve had come to learn while working with Diana, loved to bend the ear of anyone who'd listen, spouting moral outrage and facts and figures that, unfortunately, confirmed their outrage wasn't a lunatic's unsubstantiated ranting. No, such horrors were all too real, human beings capable of the most barbaric of acts, which was why Steve was here in D.C. with Diana.

She currently sat on the stage, thirty feet away, surrounded by national and international dignitaries who shared her mission to eradicate human rights abuses and to hold those accountable who commit such atrocities, regardless of the political, religious, or economic standing of the perpetrator.

"I agree, sir. You make an excellent argument. No. No, I haven't had the pleasure of reading your White Paper. Why don't you tell me about it?"

And off the brilliant man went, explaining his research findings and treatise of a paper Steve had never heard of nor had any intention of reading. But he'd bet Diana had read it. The woman devoured knowledge of her causes the way most women sought good husbands—with single-minded determination.

Diana, in a crème-colored dress stood out among all the men on the stage, dressed as they were in dark blue or black suits. Hair swept back into a French braid, posture perfect, graceful legs crossed at the knees, Diana was as lovely as ever. And Steve would happily drown in her aquatic eyes, sink to the bottom of the deepest ocean if they would only cast their flood of brilliance his way. _And see me. See how I feel about you. See how good we could be together._

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Trevor," Mr. Hernandez said, "I believe I should probably join the others on the stage. By the way," —he patted Steve's shoulder— "don't you think it's high time you tell Dr. Wayne how you feel about her."

Steve, who had given up all pretense of listening to Hernandez, pulled his eyes away from Diana and down to the shorter man. At five feet nothing, Jose Hernandez must've received a double dose of brains and balls when God had made him, for the gentleman never failed to speak his mind nor bite his tongue.

"I won't bother pretending I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good, I didn't think you would." Hernandez lifted his chin and pointed it toward the stage. "Senorita Wayne is beautiful, inside and out. She fights and advocates for those too afraid, too tired, and just too disenfranchised to fight for themselves. She has power, money and a voice to make things happen and people listen, but she's also known pain, had her own inner battles to wage."

"I know." And he did. Steve witnessed, firsthand, how Diana Wayne, literally left for dead, had clawed her way from the wretched trenches of death and depression to the eternal light that lived inside her that no villain's bullet could ever blast away.

"You know yet you've done nothing to claim the woman who has so clearly claimed your heart."

"It's not that simple." Life, since he'd met Diana, had never been simple. She was complex of thought and feelings, her mind capable of processing a myriad of plans and missions, but of also shutting down emotionally if she felt threatened or overwhelmed.

"Tell her how you feel, my friend, or . . ."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "Or what?"

Hernandez chuckled low. "If I was thirty years younger and a foot taller, the or would be quite evident. But I'm not, yet I'm sure there's someone out there who is, someone who will sweep the senorita off her pretty feet while you're standing around waiting for the perfect time to reveal your heart." Hernandez straightened his blue-and-gray tie, stout fingers adjusting the silk just so. "Just so you know, Trevor, there is no perfect time. There are only opportunities we create for ourselves."

The shorter man walked away from Trevor, disappearing into the sea of bodies until he made his way up the steps and onto the stage. Shaking hands with the other speakers for today's event, Jose Hernandez settled next to Diana, took her hand into his own and kissed the back.

She smiled.

Hernandez beamed.

And Steve, well, Steve had a job to do. That job, as always, was to keep Diana safe. Even from people she thought she could trust. _Like Clark Kent, the usurping bastard. _

Scanning the crowd, Steve frowned when his gaze settled on Lex Luthor. Luthor, for his part, dressed in what Steve guessed to be an Armani suit and sporting a gold-and-diamond watch worth more than Steve's entire wardrobe, had his own focus squarely on a now-standing Diana.

She'd been introduced and was presently standing behind the podium, prepared to give a speech she'd written a mere week ago.

Luthor looked on, his bald head and beady eyes noticeable even in this crush of bodies.

Like a snake on the hunt, Steve slithered through the crowd, keeping himself behind Luthor and far enough away that the CEO of Lexcorp would have no reason to suspect that he was the prey instead of the predator.

But, oh, how Steve wanted nothing more than to remove his Glock, shove it against the asshole's spineless back and pull the trigger. Over and over, his worthless body sprawled before the assembled humanitarians as an example of why they fight, and whom they fight against.

Yet that was a military mindset, not the way Diana wanted things handled. No, Diana took a more subtle approach. Effective, sure, but not nearly as quickly satisfying as killing Luthor outright, and that was why Diana was the brains and he the brawn.

Knowing Luthor was here, not as the criminal mastermind he unmistakably was, but in the role of "concerned" corporate mogul, Steve relaxed and listened to Diana's speech. There would be time enough to deal with the likes of Luthor later. And when he did, when Diana finally realized that such men only understood violence, Steve and his Glock would be ready. And Lex Luthor would be no more. _'__The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants.'_

"I would like to preface my remarks," Diana began, the crowd quiet, her serene but determined face projected on two jumbotrons, "on the transformation of silence into language and action with a poem. The title of it is "The Cure at Troy," penned by a man who cares nothing for applause or recognition, but only wishes for you to hear, to feel, to speak and then to act. To him, I extend my humblest of thanks and gratitude.

_Human beings suffer,  
they torture one another,  
they get hurt and get hard.  
No poem or play or song  
can fully right a wrong  
inflicted or endured._

_The innocent in gaols  
beat on their bars together.  
A hunger-striker's father  
stands in the graveyard dumb.  
The police widow in veils  
faints at the funeral home._

_History says, Don't hope  
on this side of the grave.  
But then, once in a lifetime  
the longed for tidal wave  
of justice can rise up,  
and hope and history rhyme._

_So hope for a great sea-change  
on the far side of revenge.  
Believe that a further shore  
is reachable from here.  
Believe in miracles  
and cures and healing wells._

_Call the miracle self-healing:_

_The utter self-revealing_

_double-take of feeling._

_If there's fire on the mountain_

_Or lightning and storm_

_And a god speaks from the sky  
_

_That means someone is hearing_

_the outcry and the birth-cry_

_of new life at its term.__"_

When Diana concluded, what Steve knew to be a poem written by Clark Kent, for an endless beat of fathomable comprehension, the crowd teetered on the edge of hope and despair. When they erupted into cheers and whistles, the pendulum safety swung toward hope and away from the tempting lure of despair.

Diana waited for the crowd to resettle before continuing.

"I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. I am standing here as a survivor of a brutal home invasion that claimed the life of my husband and unborn daughter. For the last three years, I was forced to look upon myself and my life with a harsh and urgent clarity that has left me still shaken but much stronger. This is a situation faced by many women, by some of you here today. Some of what I experienced during that time has helped elucidate for me much of what I feel concerning the transformation of silence into language and action.

In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my own mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for in my life, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light and what I most regretted were my silences. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end. Death, on the other hand, is the final silence.

I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength.

I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other widows and mothers while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences. And it was the concern and caring of all those women which gave me strength and enabled me to scrutinize the essentials of my life.

The women of the Gotham Trauma Survivor's Network, sustained me through that period. They were African American and white, old and young, lesbian and heterosexual, rich and poor, and we all shared a war against the tyrannies of silence. They all gave me a strength and concern without which I could not have survived intact. Within those first few months of acute fear came the knowledge– within the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle and otherwise, conscious or not– I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.

What are the words you do not have yet? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?

And, of course, I am afraid– you can hear it in my voice– because the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of self-revelation and that always seems fraught with danger. But my sister, my only sibling, when I told her of our topic and my difficulty with it, said, 'tell them about how you're never really a whole person if you remain silent because there's always that one little piece inside of you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter and hotter, and if you don't speak it out one day it will just up and smack you in the mouth.'"

Luthor, hands balled into fists at his side, skewered Diana with his hard, destructive eyes. While everyone else stared—enraptured—by her honest and painful words, Luthor was coiled tighter than a rattler on a rock at midday, ready to strike and sink his fangs into Diana.

Steve crept closer, his pistol hidden under his suit jacket, accessible.

"On the cause of silence, each one of us draws his or her own fear– fear of contempt, of censure, or some judgment, or recognition, of challenge, of annihilation. But most of all, I think, we fear the visibility without which we also cannot truly live. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters, our brothers and ourselves are wasted, while our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned, we can sit in our safe corners as mute as bottles, and still we will be no less afraid.

Each of us is here now because in one way or another we share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of that language which has been made to work against us. In the transformation of silence into language and action, it is vitally necessary to teach by living and speaking those truths, which we believe and know beyond understanding. Because in this way alone we can survive, by taking part in a process of life that is creative and continuing, that is growth.

And it is never without fear; of visibility, of the harsh light of scrutiny and perhaps of judgment, of pain, of death. But we have lived through all of those already, in silence, except death. And I remind myself all the time now, that if I was to have been born mute or had maintained an oath of silence my whole life long for safety, I would still have suffered, and I would still die. It is very good for establishing perspective.

And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own.

We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.

The fact that we are here and that I speak not these words is an attempt to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken."

Diana strategically paused, then sipped from the water left for her on the podium. The woman was very good, Steve thought. She knew precisely how to work the crowd, to tap into their emotions and then set them on the path she'd meticulously yet discreetly laid before them.

"Wayne Industries is committed to ending the silence of oppression, the silence of injustice, the silence of abuse against women and children. We are also committed to ending tyranny where it may reside, to ending corporate greed and corporate human rights abuses in the name of profits and the bottom line. I stand before you, as an ambassador of good will, an ambassador of hope, an ambassador of peace. I pledge to you that Wayne Industries and our Corporate League of men and women, the world over, will be silent no more. And I ask you, I beg of you, to join our fight, to speak up, to speak out and become your own Justice League."

The hall erupted into applause, the sound louder than the thunder and lightning crackling outside. Diana Wayne, CEO of Wayne Industries had just, quite publically, thrown down the corporate gauntlet and her eyes, cold and challenging, were staring squarely at a seething Lex Luthor. _Message sent and received._

Then the man was gone, swallowed up by the people jostling and shoving to get a closer look at the woman who'd just put herself and her company between the innocents and the tyrants, the woman who, foolishly and quite deliberately, just made herself a target.

Steve Trevor's hand slid to his gun, fingering the barrel, knowing—sooner rather than later—he would have to use it in defense of Diana. The woman he loved. The woman, he feared, was weakening to a smooth talking poet with no staying power.

Maybe Jose Hernandez was right. Perhaps it was time for Steve to step up his game and claim his wonder woman.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Author's Note:**

"The Cure at Troy" by Seamus Heaney

"The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action" by Audre Lorde (revised and adapted for story)


	19. Chapter 18: Staying Power

**Chapter 18: Staying Power**

**Metropolis, Martha Kent Residence**

Clark reclined on his mother's paisley couch; one arm swung over the back the other on a knee. His eyes firmly fixed on the flat screen television mounted on the wall a few feet in front of him. And he was absolutely enthralled.

By her words.

By her Grecian strength.

By her passion and conviction.

"That was a stirring speech," Martha said excitedly. "It makes me want to join the Justice League, speak up and speak out."

Like the crowd in attendance, Martha, too, had cheered. But she had also quieted with everyone else when Diana had spoken of her loss and pain, of her silence and her inability to be silent any longer. Then Martha had shed a few silent tears, and Clark hadn't known what to say, so he'd slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders and hugged her.

And, together, they'd finished watching Diana deliver Amnesty International's keynote address that kicked off the first day of a two-day conference.

Now, all Clark could do was stare at the throng of people surrounding her, Diana's image no longer visible. And for timeless seconds he feared for her safety – feared that she kept Steve Trevor so close because he stood between her and some unknown danger.

But that couldn't be true, Clark tried to convince himself, battling the unexplainable bolt of concern that had rocked him when she mentioned ending corporate human rights abuse and tyranny. That had seemed very personal to Diana, and her eyes had shone like a blue diamond – exquisite and unbreakable.

And as Jose Hernandez spoke, his voice as strongly eloquent as Diana's, Clark wished he could explain what had overcome him – why his stomach had churned with worry for Diana's well-being.

_She's safe; Trevor is with her. He may be an ass, but he'll protect her, get Diana safely home._

"Wasn't that a brilliant speech, son?" His mother's brown eyes beamed up at him, pride so evident in them.

Clark nodded and smiled. "She always speaks from the heart. I think that's why people like and trust her so much. Diana has an amazing way of sprinkling people with angel dust of faith and hope."

He'd incorrectly thought that losing her husband and child had robbed her of both. Instead, Diana seemed to have taken her faith and hope and loss and used them to drive her personal mission and outreach. But there had been anger in her message as well. And what also sounded like a warning, or perhaps a challenge. Clark didn't know exactly, but this Diana, the woman forged in fire, said what she meant and meant what she said. Come what may, Diana Wayne would not be moved until she got exactly what she wanted.

The problem, at least for Clark, was that he had yet to figure out how to get Diana to include him on the lists of wants and desires.

"Faith and hope," Martha repeated slowly, as if trying the words out on her tongue for the first time. "The Prince women, I've come to learn over the years, have a wellspring of both, especially in one another."

Clark internally stirred at this bit of news. Until seven months ago, Clark had no idea his mother and Diana had become friends. And, apparently, that friendship extended to Diana's mother and sister. _And Ma kept all of this from me. Why?_

"What do you know of the Prince women, Ma? How well do you know them?"

His mother shot him a wary look that said she knew exactly what he was trying to do.

"I'm just asking."

"We never talked about you, Clark. I told you that before, besides a couple of times when you two first broke up. After that, Diana never asked and I never shared."

Clark twisted on the couch to face his mother, and wondered how much he could get her to spill without her feeling that she was violating Diana's confidence. _Probably not much. Ma's like Fort Knox._

"You clearly care for her. Tell me about it."

Martha was quiet for several minutes and Clark waited patiently, knowing his mother wasn't a woman to be rushed. And, frankly, if she had no intention of telling him a thing, she would've just said "no" and left him on the sofa to stew. But she hadn't, which meant she was sifting through her thoughts, determining what she would and would not share with him.

That was fine by Clark. Better than fine, actually, because that told him that whatever relationship Diana had established with his mother was of deep value to Martha.

"Before we begin, son, I want to be very clear that while it would do my old heart good if you and Diana managed to find your way back to each other, I will not help you solve the puzzle that is Diana. You must do that on your own. And if she wishes to be with you, she must be willing to do the same with you. But I will tell you this one thing." Martha laid a hand on his cheek, a motherly gesture Clark knew he would never outgrow. "Faith and hope is not universal, Clark."

"What do you mean?"

Martha's hand dropped to her lap before she next spoke. "It means that Diana may have faith and hope in herself as a businesswoman, daughter, sister, and friend, but it doesn't mean that she has either in terms of personal love or romantic entanglements."

"So you think I'm asking her for something she's incapable of giving?"

His mother shook her head. "You're asking Diana for something she is afraid to give – possibly unsure whether she even has within her to give."

"She told you this?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Then what can you tell me?"

"I can tell you that without Diana's help, I wouldn't have been able to manage your father's funeral or the farm afterwards."

That fact still stung. Not that Diana had aided his mother so graciously, but that Clark had been so out of it that he'd been no help whatsoever. Worse, he'd never realized how much pressure and stress his mother had been under – how much of a load she'd carried on her capable but fatigued shoulders, even before his father's death, which had only added to his guilt and sense of worthlessness.

"In the beginning, I thought she was just being kind to me because I was your mother. But she continued to call and to check on me after the two of you parted ways. She never spoke of the broken engagement or tried to convince me to speak to you on her behalf. But" —she touched his hand— "I felt so bad about what had happened between you two. Diana was just the sweetest thing and I could tell, even though she never mentioned you, that she was so hurt. I wanted to ease her pain, help her to understand why you had lashed out at her."

"So you told her I was adopted."

"Yes. I know it wasn't my secret to share."

_No. It had been mine, and I should have told her. I should have told her many things._

"I'm sorry . . . I just . . . well, you were hurting and there was nothing I could do to help you – nothing you would allow me to do. And Diana was hurting, but at least she was willing to listen. So I told her all I knew about your birth parents."

"Their names and the orphanage where they'd left me?"

"Yes. I had no idea she would take the information and hire someone to find them. I just . . . I just wanted her to know that you didn't hate her – that you had your reasons for your self-doubt and lack of trust."

Another sting. _She thought I hated her. No, never that. But how would she have known differently? And I didn't trust her, not fully, not the way I should have._

"One day, had to be months after the conversation about your parents, Diana called me with the news. Her investigator had found the Els, your parents."

She'd told him this part before when he'd confronted her with his theory. His mother had admitted that Diana had been the one to locate his birth parents and Martha had been the one to give Diana his parents' names. But Clark had always thought there to be more to the story.

"Diana's investigator had acquired an address in the newly democratic Republic of Krypton for the Els. She didn't know what to do with it and asked my advice."

Ah, this was the part he hadn't heard.

"She had told me about her visit to her father and the fences they'd been able to mend. Diana knew they would never be the father-daughter they could've been if he'd stayed, but facing him had freed her from so much pain she'd been carrying around."

"And she hoped by finding my parents I could experience the same." Diana had virtually said as much – her motivations selfless and loving beyond his deserving.

"Yes. But she was uncertain. Diana didn't know what kind of people they were. Jonathan and I never knew why they had given you up, so I had no additional information to give her. She didn't want to bring you more pain by exposing you to parents who may not be worthy of you."

"So what advice did you give her?"

"It was more like a favor, son. I probably should not have asked it of her, but you were so lost and in so much pain that I didn't know where else to turn."

"What did you ask her to do, Ma?"

Martha swallowed, then looked at the empty water glass on the table in front of her.

He should probably refill her glass, and, he would, but not until she finished.

"Go on, Ma, please."

"I asked her to check them out."

"Wait. What? Do you mean you asked Diana to travel to Krypton?"

Martha nodded.

"And she did it?"

Another nod.

"I can't believe this. Diana met my birth parents."

"She went to see them." Martha gave a little snort of a laugh. "She just dropped in on them the same way she did her father, without warning or notice. She's obviously more tactful and diplomatic nowadays."

"I can't believe this," Clark repeated, amazed.

"To make a long story short, Diana gave me a full report."

"So they told her why they put me up for adoption."

"No. No. They tried, but she wouldn't let them. She just talked to them enough to discern their character. Diana didn't think it her place to know something you've wanted to know your entire life."

Martha touched his cheek again. "I wanted to know if they were good people, Clark. As much as Jonathan and I loved you, we never wanted to replace your birth parents. When they left, it created a void in you we couldn't fill. No one could fill it, no one but them. And after Jonathan died and you let Diana go, that void nearly swallowed you. I wanted to help. I only wanted to help, son."

Her voice, choked with tears, were strong with conviction. "After spending a few days with them, Diana was convinced they were of strong character. They wanted to meet you, to explain things and make amends. They wanted to know where you lived and how they could contact you, but Diana provided them with none of your personal information. She, however, did as I requested and gave them my home number."

"And they called you?"

"Yes."

"And you talked?"

"Yes. A nice long talk."

"And you eventually gave them my address so they could send me that letter?" The letter he hadn't opened but had kept for eight years. _Eight wasted years._

"Yes." She squeezed his hand. "I know you don't like other people doing things for you, Clark, but there is nothing wrong in allowing the people who love and care about you to take care of you when you are in need."

"I know." They were easy words to say but not to admit. It had taken him far too long to understand that in allowing others to share his burden, to lend a helping hand, that it didn't make him any less of a man. _In their eyes or mine. _

"I believe you now do." And there was relieved satisfaction there, in her words and the smile she gave him. "I love her like a daughter, you know."

"Yes, I kind of figured that out. The daughter you should've had if I had married Diana all those years ago."

"It's never too late."

"What if it is? What if faith and hope are not enough?"

"If you believed that, Clark, you would've continued to stay away from her. If all was lost, Diana wouldn't have included your poem in her speech."

She had at that.

"How did you know it was my poem? It was never published."

Martha frowned. "I think I would know my own son's poetic style. I used to find enough of your "ode to this" and "ode to that" when you were a boy. Thankfully I always checked your shirt and pants pockets before doing the laundry."

Clark laughed, he was forever scribbling at school or in the field, hastily tucking the small sheets away when his teacher or father caught him.

Then Clark smiled, knowing his mother was right. Diana had just given him the best reason for hope, to keep the faith in spite of the fact that Diana was just beginning to warm to him.

She'd kept the book of poems he'd written for her. Through a horrible breakup and marriage to another man, Diana had kept the first gift Clark had ever given her – the gift she'd said meant the most to her because she could see his soul in every word, every line.

And she'd kept it. That had to mean something. Right?

Clark glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was a little after three; she would still be immersed in conference business. He would wait until the evening to call her.

"I wrote it a long time ago, Ma, after Diana and I went to see a documentary on the Boys of Baraka."

"So," his mother said, standing and snatching up the empty glass, "have you told Diana about C.J. or Bruce's letter yet?"

She knew he hadn't. The question was her way of telling him he needed to do so.

Clark stood as well.

"I'll tell her."

"When?"

"Soon." He paused and then asked, "Did she ever talk about Bruce?"

He knew she shouldn't have asked. He tried very hard not to, but the question had fermented too long.

His mother stopped before reaching the kitchen, her back to him, gray and brown hair falling to her shoulders, shoulders thin but straight.

"She loved her husband."

"I know."

"But she waited a year for you."

No. That wasn't right. "No, I—"

"I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth, to even let her know I knew what she was doing." His mother turned to him then. "She hoped, for a year, Clark, Diana held out hope that you would change your mind. But I knew, and I think, in her heart of hearts, Diana knew as well."

"Knew what?" But what a foolish question, the answer painfully obvious.

"That you would not change your mind – that you were incapable of changing your mind, not then, Clark, not then. She should not have hoped, and I didn't have the heart to take away the last strand of it with the blatant truth."

But she had loved Bruce and, for all accounts, they had been happy. And Clark, no matter how hard he'd worked on self, couldn't help but wonder what Bruce had given Diana that he had not. Because, no, Clark no longer thought Bruce's and Diana's relationship was about money and jewelry or any other shallow trappings of wealth.

_What then? _Faith? Hope? No. _What then?_ Trust? _Yes. Dammit, yes._

"He trusted her." And she had trusted him, more than she had ever trusted Clark. Because, maybe, deep down, in a place Diana probably refused to admit existed, Diana had known that Clark couldn't be trusted – that he would eventually break her heart. _And I did._

"And what have you done to gain her trust this time around, Clark?"

"Not enough," he admitted honestly. "Not nearly enough."

"And what has Diana done to gain your trust?"

She'd done nothing deliberately, he knew. But there had been signs, subtle as they were.

"She's opened up to me about her father and mother's marriage. She's apologized for not being more sensitive to our economic differences."

That had taken him by surprise. But she had done it. Standing in front of the Gotham Museum, waiting for Alfred to pull the Bentley around, Diana had turned to him and said, "There is nothing like the excavation of self, Clark. It's a painful and altogether unpleasant experience." With the slightest touch, she'd placed her hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry I couldn't see how difficult it was to be with a person not of your economic class. A person who didn't realize the extent of her own privilege and the extent of your own disadvantage. I took much for granted, and much I simply did not fully comprehend. I do now, and I'm sorry I didn't then."

And he'd been unsure if she was asking for his forgiveness the way he had asked for hers. He got the feeling that Diana had just wanted to apologize to him, needed to apologize. And she had done so without expectation of forgiveness in return.

By the time Clark had roused himself from his stupor, Alfred and the car were there, and Trevor had been walking up the white marble steps toward them, a disapproving grimace on his face.

They'd met twice after that, enjoying two brief outings, but nothing more had been spoken on the topic, Clark hesitant to bring it up.

"Sounds like a good start."

"I suppose."

"Be patient."

"I'm trying. But there's this other guy."

"Steve Trevor, the bodyguard."

_How in the world?_ Clark shook his head and just accepted the fact that Martha Kent would always be five steps ahead of him.

"What should I do about him?"

"He's handsome."

"I suppose."

"And Diana clearly trusts him to protect her."

"Yes. I know all that already, Ma."

"Well, Mr. Kent, there's no reason to get all testy with me."

Clark sighed. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry. It's just . . . the guy bugs me. He thinks I have no staying power."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks. It only matters what Diana thinks."

"I don't know what she thinks."

"Have you asked her?"

"No."

She turned around and walked into her kitchen, mumbling something about "stupid men."

He yelled after her saying, "I was planning on calling Diana tonight."

"Good, that's something at least."

"You still haven't told me what to do about Trevor." Clark now stood leaning against the refrigerator, his mother pouring herself a glass of iced tea.

"I don't know, honey. She's never mentioned him in a romantic sense, but, then again, she wouldn't have. I told you, we don't talk about things like that. Why don't you just add that to the list of things you two should probably talk about?"

His mother was right. Clark and Diana had more to talk about than their past.

Martha took a sip of iced tea. "Why don't you go get the guest room ready. Lois should be here with C.J. in a couple of hours."

Clark did as his mother suggested, pleased to have a brief diversion from his thoughts. At least he and Lois had had an amicable divorce and did well in each other's presence, he thought, making it easier on C.J. and themselves.

But he hadn't told Diana about his son. He should have. When he'd explained about his marriage and divorce, he should've told her about him having a son. And why hadn't he? He'd known Diana wouldn't have been upset that he'd had a child with his wife, no more than she had been upset when she'd learned of his marriage. Hell, she'd actually seemed genuinely upset to hear of his divorce. _So why haven't I told her. Because, in spite of everything with C.J., you still have your child while she lost hers._

Yes, Clark knew that had been the reason all along. And with C.J.'s black hair and blue eyes, the child could have been Clark's and Diana's as much as he was Clark's and Lois's. _And would she see the same if she ever met him? _Clark knew the answer to that as well. _Of course she would._

Clark sat on the freshly made bed and contemplated the cell phone in his hand. It was still early.

He dialed anyway.

Three rings later, she picked up.

"Hello, Clark."

"Recognized the number, did you?"

"If I recall correctly, you had the gall to program your number into my phone when we were going over notes for the biography."

He laughed, knowing he'd done just that when she had taken a break to accept a business call, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits when he'd grabbed her cell phone off her desk and started pushing buttons.

"You look beautiful in crème, by the way."

Clark heard what sounded like a ding from an elevator. He wondered what she was doing, what he had interrupted.

"Thank you. I didn't expect you to watch."

"I'm glad I did, but seeing as I'm at Ma's house and she had a reminder set, there was no way I could've missed it."

When she asked, "How's Martha?" her voice softened in the familiar way it did when she talked of her mother and sister.

"She's fine. Proud of you. I think you have your first justice leaguer. Sign her up, Dr. Wayne."

Clark could almost hear Diana's smile through the phone. "I'll be sure to call and thank her for watching. Is that why you called?"

Another ding.

"You read my poem, Diana. When you'd asked if you could share one of my poems, I had no idea you meant to read one of the ones I had written just for you."

He had known she was moving, but the sound of swishing suddenly stopped.

"I'm sorry, Clark, I assumed you knew. Those . . . those are the only writings of yours that I own, the only ones that are like lightning on a page. I didn't mean to overstep."

"No. It just took me by surprise, is all. I didn't know you even still had the book."

The swishing sound resumed.

"You gave it to me. It meant a lot."

Clark sank to the floor, listening as Diana continued to walk, saying nothing until it sounded like she had reached her destination.

"Where are you?"

"My hotel room. Steve wanted to have lunch but I wasn't up to a public meal or the conversation I think he wanted to have with me."

Clark ground his teeth together. It seemed as if Trevor was ready to throw his hat in the ring. But it was Diana's response that most intrigued him. He thought of asking, but decided to let it go for now.

"You're tired," he said instead, guessing. "You were on your way to your room for a rest when I called, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"You could've let the phone go to voice mail. Why didn't you?"

"So pushy."

"I know. But I haven't seen you in days."

"It's only been five days, Clark, and I'll be back in Gotham in another two."

"I miss you, Diana." It was a simple enough admission. He was done overthinking and second-guessing.

She said nothing but he heard more movement then silence.

"Why did you answer the phone if you're so tired? Tell me, Diana. Please."

More silence. Long minutes. Then.

"I've discovered that I enjoy speaking with you."

Clark grinned. Thank god Diana wasn't here to see how absolutely thrilled her reticent admission had made him. The grin grew wider when she said, "I planned on calling you after I showered and slept."

"I should probably let you go then."

"No, no. I'm already on the bed. I can shower later. Just talk."

"About what?"

Her yawn was soft and muffled. The poor woman was tired. Clark wondered when the last time she'd had a good night's rest.

"About anything. Tell me a story or read from a book. Anything you like. I need something soothing to help clear my mind."

Her tiredly spoken words reignited that shiver of fear and concern Clark had felt after her speech. He wanted to ask her what was weighing so heavily on her mind, but knew now was not the time. Despite the emotionless mask she too often wore, Diana had just lowered it and reached out to him. And as much as he had pushed her thus far, he wouldn't push her now. Now was the time for Clark Kent to begin building her trust – to show Diana and whomever else doubted him that he did have staying power.

"Today is Father's Day. The tenth since my father's passing."

"I know. I still have a hard time talking to my own."

"Did you call him?"

"Sent flowers instead. This year is Donna's turn to be the dutiful daughter."

And that was another topic he wanted to know more about. Later, he told himself.

"Did you write Jonathan a Father's Day poem? Do you still do that?"

She remembered, and, of course he had.

"Would you like to hear it?"

"It would be my honor."

"So formal, Dr. Wayne," he laughed.

"I'm exhausted. I could be a babbling idiot instead of an uptight lady of business. Take your pick, Mr. Kent."

"I think you'll be asleep before I finish."

"Probably."

"Will you call me later after you shower and have dinner?"

"Yes, but I'll speak with Martha first."

Fair enough.

"Will you have dinner with me when you return?"

"Still pushing."

"I know, but will you?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

No matter what he'd told himself, none of their outings could truly be considered as real dates. They hadn't felt like one nor did Diana acknowledge that they were.

"Yes, I'm asking you out on a date. Do you accept?"

She said nothing for long minutes. And, for once, Clark was patient. This was Diana. She did nothing in half measures. All in or nothing at all - that was the new, grown-up Diana.

"Yes. Next Saturday?"

"Next Saturday. Ah, yeah, that would be great. I-I'll plan something nice. I'll—"

"Read me Jonathan's poem, Clark, I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Oh, yeah, right." He cleared his throat, finally feeling like he was making some headway with her.

"The many sow, but only the chosen reap;

Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,

That with the cool oblivion of sleep

A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.

If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout

One meager blossom for our hands to cull,

Accustomed indigence provokes a shout

Of praise that life becomes so bountiful.

Now ushered regally into your own,

Look where you will, as far as eye can see,

Your little seeds are to a fullness grown,

And golden fruit is ripe on every tree.

Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage

Without travail, to which weak wills aspire;

This is a merited and grief-earned wage

From One Who holds His servants worth their hire.

So has the shyest of your dreams come true,

Built not of sand, but of the solid rock,

Impregnable to all that may accrue

Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock."

Silence met the last line of his poem, Diana fast asleep.

And Clark remembered. Remembered how Diana had stayed awake with him, on the phone, the night his father had passed away, talking about anything to soothe his haggard, grieving mind. She had been there for him in his hour of darkest need. And, with brutal, acidic truth, Clark realized that he had never returned the favor.

_No staying power. _Perhaps Steve had been right. Back then, Clark had no staying power. He hadn't known how to be a superman, not even when her family had been ripped from her and Diana was in need of an anchor in her tumultuous storm.

He did now.

He would be that superman now, and not in the way Steve imagined. Diana, Clark finally realized, required not only trust and love but emotional security. He could give that to her.

Clark stood and peered out of the window. A blue sedan had just parked in front of the brownstone. Lois was early.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Author's Note:**

"**Lines to My father" By ****Countee Cullen**


	20. Chapter 19: A Day For Confessions

**Chapter 19: A Day for Confessions**

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

"I want to know what Talia's been up to while we've been away."

Diana sat at her office desk, laptop open and in front of her, Steve standing beside her, his eyes cast down, like her own, at the laptop.

"Has she tried to access your personal files again?"

Tapping a few keys, Diana opened an encrypted folder labeled "Corporate Injustice". "Yes, but she always does. That's why she's here."

"To spy on you, I know." Steve's shrewdly protective gaze fell on Diana. "I think it's high time I interrogate the little snitch."

"Not yet."

"That's been your line since day one. I didn't like it then and I feel the same now. She's dangerous."

Yes she was. Diana didn't need Steve to tell her that Talia Head was a cunning woman of smiles and lies. Years ago, Bruce had fallen for both. But men, even the most intelligent of them, often did, especially when the deceitful package was beautiful.

"She serves a purpose."

"So you keep saying."

Diana swiveled her chair around to face her Head of Security. "So I know, as do you." She stood, forcing Steve to step back. "Talia has no idea we know who she is or what we expect she did three years ago."

Steve looked dubious, but he often did. "You're playing with dynamite, Diana. This whole Talia business could blow up in our faces."

Diana stepped past Steve, walked to her office door and closed it. It was far too early in the morning for Talia to be at her desk but Diana, despite Steve's concerns, understood the need for caution. She turned back to him.

"Unknowingly, she's aided our cause. Every time she tampers with my computer, stealing files and information I want her to find, she passes them on to the men responsible for so much pain in the world, men who make money off the misery of others, funding tribal wars, clan battles, and political uprisings. Talia takes the bait, leaving a trail. You follow her and Victor follows her electronic transactions. We get there first. We make the difference between life and death."

"We haven't always gotten there first," he countered. "We can't always get there first. Sometimes the best we can do is clean up the carnage."

Leave it to Steve Trevor to state the obvious. But his boldness and tenacity had served her well, were the reasons why she'd offered him the post of Head of Security at Wayne Industries, why she respected and trusted his opinions.

"And this isn't just about saving and protecting other people, we both know that."

It was also why the man tried her patience. Perhaps one day she would fire his arrogant ass just to wipe the knowing look off his face.

She narrowed her eyes at him the way she often did when he overstepped, entering territory he knew to be off-limits. The good thing about an ex-military man like Steve was that he understood rank, hierarchy and chain-of-command.

He swore. "That won't always work, Diana."

"As long as you work for me, it will."

It was Steve's eyes that now narrowed and then he closed the few feet between them. "Don't talk to me like that."

"Like what?" But she knew. Damn him. Diana didn't need another man in her life thinking he could tear down her walls and tend to the scars it hid. It was all she could do to manage Clark Kent's relentless efforts.

"Like you're some cold, unfeeling fish. Like you don't care if I stay or go." He stepped even closer, uncomfortably close. "Like we aren't friends who can be honest with each other."

They were friends. But the way Steve was staring at Diana, the way she assumed he'd looked at her many times before and she hadn't noticed, had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with desire.

She shook her head, denying the six foot muscled truth in front of her. No, she didn't need this complication, not with Steve. Why couldn't men keep things simple? Why did they always have to push and pull and want more than a woman was willing to give? Why couldn't they just leave well enough alone?

"Don't say it," she warned. "Don't you dare say it, Steve."

"Why not? My not saying it won't make it any less true."

True, but then she could pretend that Donna and Dinah had been mistaken. She could pretend that what she saw in his eyes was a trick of the morning sun streaming in from her window. She could pretend that she hadn't stood still while life continued to move and change around her.

Gentle hands settled on her shoulders, and it took all of Diana's self-control not to thrust them away from her. She didn't want to feel his warmth, his kindness, his unmasked need. She didn't want to hurt him with the truth he was determined to rip from her.

"We work well together, Diana, and we're friends. I respect and like you, and I believe you feel the same way about me. We already spend so much time together. Haven't you ever once considered that we could be more to each other than colleagues and friends?"

No, she hadn't. Not once.

"O-kay," he said, taking her silence as his answer. "Well, umm, think about it now. I'm not such a bad choice, Diana," Steve said with the slightest laugh of self-mockery and nervousness."

She so wished he would release her; wished he hadn't now decided to make his feelings known. Diana could've easily done without the choice he was about to put before her. A choice that was as simple as it was painful.

One hand came to her cheek and stroked.

Diana swallowed the distantness his touch evoked, and knew something was wrong with her. Donna and Dinah were right. Steve was indeed an attractive man. She hadn't noticed before but she did now. He was also trustworthy, protective, and loyal - traits that were admirable and desirable in a male.

"I love you, Diana," he admitted, his words coming out with an emotional confidence Diana hadn't known in many years. "I've loved you for a while." He raised his other hand to her cheek. "I should've told you before now. I shouldn't have hidden my feelings from you."

Diana closed her eyes, not wanting to see the reserved hope on Steve's face. And heard her mother's words that it was time for Diana to lay down her burden and live again. The truth of Hippolyta's sentiments weren't lost on Diana; indeed, she felt them keenly each night she fell asleep alone, waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares that plagued her still.

No, she was too scarred, too bruised and battered to inflict any man with the horrific baggage that was Diana Wayne. Steve didn't need a woman like her. He deserved someone whose heart was free to love him. He needed—

He kissed her.

She froze, eyes still closed, body rejecting the subtle press of his lips against her own.

Seconds passed.

Unable to take it any longer, Diana wrenched her mouth away and opened eyes gone watery. And hated what she saw when she did.

Disappointment.

Hurt.

Love.

"Is there no room in your heart for me, Diana? Do you think you can grow to love me the way I love you?"

Diana wanted to yell at Steve that she wasn't worth loving, worth having, that he could do so much better than a broken, confused widow. She wanted to slap him for ruining everything with his soft kiss and tender feelings.

And she wanted to hug and thank him for thinking of her as a woman, for seeing her in a way she no longer saw herself. And to apologize for not thinking or seeing him as a man she could open the gate to her heart to.

And because Steve Trevor was indeed her friend, deserving of honesty, she told him the truth.

"I've only ever loved two men. One was murdered and stolen from me. I can never have him back, no matter how much I pray or plead. The other was my first love, an innocent, naïve love that was as fragile as it was profound. And that man has returned, stirring up feelings I thought were long dead."

"But you don't trust Clark Kent, not the way you trust me," Steve challenged, obviously undeterred by what she'd just confessed. "You can't possibly love a man you can't trust."

She had no response to that. What was between Diana and Clark wasn't as simple as mere trust issues. Steve wouldn't understand. Hell, she wasn't entirely sure she understood. And, yes, trust was at the core, but so were so many other things, things that needed to be ironed out before she made any decisions about her future.

And maybe Steve would be proven right. Or maybe he wouldn't. Only time would tell.

"I'll wait, Diana. I've waited this long; I can wait a little longer."

It didn't matter how long Steve waited. If a woman couldn't love a man she did not trust, then she also couldn't love a man whose touch aroused nothing within her. And his kiss had spawned not one ember of fire. Which could mean Diana was truly dead inside, or that Steve Trevor was not the man for her.

But she would spare them both; friendship didn't require her to reveal all. The man did, after all, have his pride.

"I'll take your silence as my cue to leave."

Good. She had nothing else to say to him. This conversation was a dead end. It had been from the start, Steve too caught up to see the warning sign ahead.

"I'll get with Victor and review the footage from your office and Talia's work space. We'll find out what she was up to while you were away."

"That would be helpful. Return as soon as you have the final report."

He nodded. "Will do; give me a few hours." Steve paused at the door, his hand on the knob, eyes on her, words she knew she didn't want to hear on his lips. "A woman can love more than two men in her lifetime, Diana. I know you still mourn Bruce and that Clark may seem like the most reasonable route since you loved him first. But don't shortchange yourself; limit your options to the known and the familiar. With me, Diana, we can build from a fresh unvarnished slate. We can create a present and a future not burdened by past ugliness. Think about it."

Diana watched as Steve left, the solid door shutting behind him. But his words lingered like smoke – strong and cloying.

By the end of the day, Diana was exhausted. Steve had come and gone. They'd eaten lunch in her office and watched the security tape of Talia. Not surprisingly, the woman had been busy, going through Diana's cabinets and desk drawers, as well as the files on her laptop, downloading certain ones to a flash drive.

She would think more on the woman's duplicity tomorrow, for now Diana just wanted to relax as she awaited Alfred's call, letting her know he'd arrived to take her home.

Diana reclined her head against the cushions of the office couch and closed her eyes. Before she could do more than that, someone softly knocked on her door.

"Dr. Wayne?"

Night security. She should have known.

"Ah, Dr. Wayne, there is someone here to see you."

Diana glanced at the clock on her desk. _Nine thirty_. Only one person would dare visit her so late without calling.

"Let him in, Sam."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door opened, Samuel Winters in his Wayne Industries all-black security uniform stood in the doorway.

And Clark Kent stood next to him, flowers in hand and a Cheshire smile on his too-handsome face.

"I'll be right out here if you need anything. Just let me know when you're ready to leave for the night and I'll escort you to your car."

Diana knew Sam had only said all of that for Clark's benefit. Her office door was his station until she'd left for the night, and he always played personal escort.

"Thank you, Sam. I'm sure Alfred will be here shortly."

Sam gave Clark a quick up-and-down before leaving, softly closing the door behind him.

"Tough security."

"It's his job." And Steve would have his gun and badge if he didn't do it well. But she wouldn't tell Clark that, no need to add him to the list of people who worried for her safety.

"Where can I put these?"

Diana gestured to the small conference table in the corner.

Clark found a clear spot among the clutter of manila folders and placed the vase of lavenders down before walking back and joining her on the couch.

"There from Ma's garden."

"Thank you. They're lovely." And, no, she didn't miss the fact that he'd remembered that she loved lavender plants and the way they smelled. Already, her office was filling with its spring fresh aroma. "Thank you."

He smiled at her and then, without warning, reached over and pulled her into an embrace.

And for the second time that day, Diana froze with uncertainty, unable to respond. But unlike earlier, she wasn't unmoved by the touch or the sentiment behind it. No, help her; Clark's warmth and boldness were more dangerous to Diana than having Talia as a spy.

"I missed you. I'm glad you're back."

And even though she said nothing nor reciprocated his embrace, Clark didn't let her go; extending the hug, compelling her to deal with the fact that he was not going away. That if she wanted him to leave her alone, she would have to force the issue.

Sighing, Diana said, "You do this on purpose."

"Of course I do."

"Why?"

"Because you need it and won't ask. Because you're stubborn and proud and lonely." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Because I'm stubborn and proud and lonely." He lifted his head and their eyes met. "And because you used to love my farm-boy hugs."

He let her go.

And she suddenly felt cold. And very, very lonely. _Damn him._

"Why are you here so late?"

"I thought we could talk."

Not again. She'd had her share of men wanting to talk. She began her day that way and she would be damned if it ended the same.

"Not tonight, Clark."

"Yes, tonight. Now."

One strong hand prevented her from standing. "Just a simple talk, Diana."

"Nothing with you is simple. I've never met a man who likes to talk as much as you do."

"Last we spoke you said you liked talking to me."

He would throw that moment of tired weakness back into her face.

"Tomorrow. We'll speak then, not now." She made to stand again but he still held her wrist. She glowered at the restraining hand then at the man. "Let. Me. Go."

"Just so you know, Diana, that arctic thing you like to do is sexy as all hell. It was off-putting at first, but now I find it damn arousing."

What? Was he toying with her? Where in the hell did this Clark come from? The man was incorrigible. And from the pleased grin on his face, knew it.

"Let me go first then I'll listen."

He released her.

"Ten minutes."

"Twenty."

"Five."

"Five? What the hell, Diana? Where did you learn your negotiation skills?"

"Bruce. Three minutes."

"All right. All right. Ten minutes."

She smirked. "Still find my 'arctic thing' sexy?"

"Not really. At least not as sexy as I find your—" His eyes slid to her legs and the skirt that had risen to mid-thigh, baring more than it was intended.

And instead of being angry as she knew she should have, swallowing the red meat Clark expertly dangled before her, Diana did something she rarely did.

She blushed then laughed, saying, "I won't quarrel with you, Clark."

He smiled, eyes lifting to her own. "Good, because I don't want to quarrel with you, either. I just want to talk before our date."

She didn't understand that. Diana figured they would talk during their date, use that time to further clear the air.

"Fine," she tiredly conceded, unwilling to analyze the inner workings of the man before her. It was too far into the evening for all of that. "Talk. I'll listen."

For all his insistence, Clark suddenly appeared unsure, perhaps even a little afraid.

Diana said nothing. Bruce had also taught her patience. Alfred hadn't called, which meant she still had time. She could wait for Clark to work out whatever was going on in his head.

Digging into his front pocket, Clark pulled out his cell phone. After a moment of searching, he handed her the phone.

Taking the phone, Diana looked down at the screen. A boy of five or six smiled back at her, two front teeth missing, a black curl of hair falling into one blue eye.

Diana stared at the image. And stared. And stared. And stared.

Clark's words of, "That's my son, C.J." unnecessary when they came seconds later.

"You have a son," she heard her choked voice say.

"Yes. He'll be six this December."

Diana realized she still held the phone, still gazed into the sweet eyes of Clark's son. The boy was the spitting image of his father, even down to his shy smile and dimpled chin.

"He's adorable," she admitted, surprised she could speak past the lump in her throat. "He's beautiful." With a hand she forced not to tremble, Diana handed the phone back to Clark.

"I should have told you earlier. I'm sorry that I didn't."

Diana had no idea why he was apologizing. Who was she to know something so personal about him?

"You owe me nothing, Clark."

Laying the phone on the cushion between them, Clark eyed her curiously. "I want no lies, misunderstandings, or secrets between us. I've made my intentions clear, but I don't expect that to mean anything to you simply because I want it to. We have to get to know each other again. You know I'm willing to do that and I think you want that as well. And part of getting to know me is knowing that I come with a son. We're a package deal."

And here Diana thought the tenuous relationship between them couldn't get more complicated. Yet it just had. She had no idea what Clark still meant to her, or even what she wanted him to mean to her. Nor did she know if she was willing to risk her heart again by tearing down her well-fortified wall. Now there was a child to consider – a child who may have had Clark's eyes and chin but also had his mother's nose and mouth. A mother who had once been Clark's wife, a wife who'd he'd admitted to not loving as much as he should have. _Because of me? _God, she hoped that hadn't been the case.

"C.J.'s not a secret but my son."

Clark sounded so defensive. He had no reason to be, Diana had no claim over him, not now and not when he'd married Lois Lane and fathered a child with his wife.

"I don't blame you for moving on with your life, Clark. Children are part of moving on, as are wives."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

_Hurt me? _Ah, yes, she comprehended now. "I may have lost my own child, but that doesn't mean I can't be happy for others. I'm sure you're an excellent father."

"I try. He's a very special boy."

The way Clark said the word "special", Diana could tell there was more to the story.

"If you like," she said, thinking it best for him to hold the rest of the story when her fatigued mind could give it the proper attention it deserved, "we can talk more about Clark Junior tomorrow. How about lunch?"

"We can do that." He sounded pleased with the idea.

"Good." She patted his knee then stood. "I think I'll call and see what's taking Alfred so long."

"There's one other thing we need to discuss."

No. No. No.

No more discussion.

No more confessions.

No more.

"Not tonight."

Clark stood, then pushed a folded piece of paper into her hand.

"What's this?"

He paused, facing paling. "An e-mail Bruce sent me the night of his death."

The paper fell from Diana's hand, and her world went black.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	21. Chapter 20: To Clark, From Bruce

**Chapter 20: To Clark, From Bruce**

**To Clark,**

_With great concern and a heavy heart, I write these words to you. If you are reading them then it means the worst has happened and I'm dead. I've never feared death. In truth, after my father died, death held too great of an appeal. I sank into a depression that frightened my mother – a depression that no doctor or medicine could cure. Then one day I received a letter and condolence card from Diana. Her words tugged at something deep inside, the lost boy I had become. She understood in a way that no one else could. I can't tell you how many times I read that letter, memorizing each and every line. She wrote, "We are both now without fathers. It hurts and I'm sorry. I wish I could take away your pain, make you smile again. But I can't. I can't wash away your tears or stop the bad dreams. I would if I could. Maybe when I learn how to stop my own, I could tell you how to do it. I have a sister and a mother but no brother. You have a mother but no sister. I will be your sister, if you will become my brother. That way we can pretend that we lost no one at all. We can be the fathers that went away - best friends and family. Will you be my best friend and family, Bruce?"_

_Since the age of ten, Diana has always been my best friend and family. We understood each other's pain, helped one another learn how to cope with the loss. I knew the little girl Diana before her father left and the one after. She was different yet the same. As I was different, yet the same after my father died. _

_I tell you this because I need for you to understand the bond that existed between us. I kept nothing from Diana, not even when I was young and dumb and doing things that shamed my father's memory. She was always there for me, the sister of my heart. But, of course, Diana became more than that. Perhaps, she had always been more. I think that was likely the case. But I loved her. I loved her when she dated and loved you. And I hated you because I had to share Diana with you. I hated you because I knew, of all the men who had tried and failed with her, that you were the only one of them who could truly keep her from me. And you made her happy, which made me hate you even more. _

_But as much as I despised you for being with her, I loved Diana more. So much that I cared more for her happiness than my own jealousy, than my own bleeding heart. _

_Then you broke her heart. And seeing that crushed my own. There was no pleasure for me in the break up. I may have wanted her, but I'd rather hold a smiling Diana on her wedding day to you than a crying Diana seeking solace in my arms because she couldn't have yours._

_And because of you, I lost her for a year. But it was a year she needed – a year we both needed. And when she returned, I knew I would never let her leave me again. Yet, it seems as if I'm the one who has left her. The thought of what my death will do to her is too much to bear. She's a strong woman. You must already know that about her. How could you not? But she is also tender beyond reckoning. Her heart is too big for the cruelties of the world. She will suffer. Diana doesn't do well with loss, with finality. And, this once, I will not be there to lift her up, to offer her the shoulder she's provided for me time and again. No, she will be alone, not because she has to be, but because she won't fully let anyone in. Not her mother, not even her sister._

_She'll mourn and hurt and will shut down for a while. How long I do not know. And if I know my wife, and I do, she'll never stop until she's found and dealt with whomever is responsible for my death. You know how stubborn she can be. You also know the temper that lives below her cool, polished exterior. She won't quit. And this is what I most fear, Clark. _

_I fear for her emotional stability. But I also fear for her physical safety. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe if I'm dead that will be the end of it. He couldn't possibly know how deep Diana was involved in my investigation, or that I keep no secrets from my wife. Most men in my position do._

_If it turns out that I'm wrong, I have no fear that Ollie, John and Arthur will find a way to keep Diana from harm. They know what to do and I trust them._

_But, like I said, I do fear for Diana's emotional state and future. Alone with a child is not the fate I wanted for my wife. The thought burns all the way to my soul. And Diana, bless her loving and loyal heart, will not fall for another, will not take the emotional plunge a third time._

_And if I was the same selfish Bruce Wayne I was the night you called wanting to speak to her, I would conveniently put the thought of Diana with another from my mind, wanting her to only love me, even in death. But that isn't love, and it isn't the fate I want for my wife._

_I want Diana and our child to be happy, even if I'm not the one to make them happy. I want them to have laughter and good cheer in their lives, not the shadowed, gripping loss that Diana and I suffered as children. I want my child to know a father's love, not his cold absence. I want my child to have a mother unburdened by thoughts of revenge but instead full of thoughts of sunshine and joy. _

_Simply put, Clark, I want my family to be happy without me. To love and mourn me, yes, but to also let me go so they can live. But that won't happen if Diana isn't made to see that she deserves to be happy, that life doesn't only take from her but that it can also give, that sometimes love can hurt but it can also fuel the soul._

_And only you, Clark Kent, can do that for her. Only you have the power to pump hope and want and life back into Diana. Only you. Because the love she once showered you with is still there. She may not still be in love with you, but once Diana gives someone her love, she doesn't revoke it so easily. She even loves that father of hers, and while he doesn't deserve it, he's grateful to have it. _

_And so I ask you a favor. Be the friend you once were to Diana. Be the friend she needs but will never ask for. Help guide her away from the darkness and back into the light. And if during that journey, that struggle to overcome past wrongs, if love blooms once again be not afraid this time, Clark. Trust her. She will never fail you, not if you truly trust her. Diana has never failed me. Unfortunately, I believe I have failed us both. _

_Pity. I never could abide books or movies with sad endings. So don't let this be one. Don't let me die in vain. _

_Protect my family. _

_Love my wife. _

_Love. Diana._

**Bruce Wayne**

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	22. Chapter 21: Emotional Stamina

**Chapter 21: Emotional Stamina**

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

Clark watched Diana as she read the letter. In spite of the fact that she'd nearly collapsed a moment ago, Clark catching her before she fell to the floor, Diana now radiated an eerie calm. He didn't like it. In fact, he knew the distantly silent way she read Bruce's e-mail didn't bode well for him.

But it had to be done. Diana deserved to know. If they were to move forward, no matter the form of their relationship, there could be no secrets between them. They'd traveled that rode once before, and the reverberations of the derailment could still be felt. No, come what may, the truth was better than a lie, even a lie of omission. And Clark and Diana had already proven their skill with lies of omission. His life had been a series of them. _No more._

As it had when he'd first given Diana the letter, the piece of paper dropped from her hand, floating southward in a mocking slow motion of emotional malaise. And when the paper touched the floor, Clark swore he heard the cracking explosion under its silent landing. Or maybe it was the explosion he saw building in Diana's soul-piercing blue eyes.

And if Clark hadn't prepared himself for the worst, if he hadn't decided to be the Clark he should've been a long time ago this Diana, the one sitting on a powder keg of deftly harnessed anger and pain, would've sent him on his heels. But he'd matured and knew exactly who and what he was. _And what I'm not. Not a coward._

Clark stepped toward the seated Diana, ready to do battle. And it would be a battle, that much was clear in the rigid set of her shoulders and jaw. They had never really argued before, Diana, by her own admission, disliked such scenes. With her family background, Clark understood that. But sometimes arguing was necessary, required even. Today was one of those days. He hoped she was ready, because he damn sure was.

For better or for worse, after tonight nothing would ever be the same between them.

In a voice icier than he'd ever heard, Diana threw the first blow. "Get out and never come back."

Clark said nothing, nor did he heed her command. And, hell yes, it was a bullet-sharp command that hissed softly through the air and shot him between his eyes, his heart.

He stepped closer. "No."

If looks could kill, Diana's laser glare would have cut him into tiny pieces of Diana resistance.

She stood, showing no signs of the weakness that had assaulted her earlier. No, that temporarily shocked Diana was gone, replaced by the warrior Diana of her Amnesty International speech. The Diana that Bruce had so stupidly ignored in his letter; or maybe this was the Diana that was birthed when more than her husband had been taken from her. He hadn't known she would lose their child as well. Bruce had no contingency plan for that level of loss, couldn't possibly have known that his sweet, tenderhearted wife would turn into nothing short of an Amazon of old.

"Leave. Now. We are done."

"We are so far from being done, Diana. I'm not leaving."

"Then I'll leave." She spun around, located her purse and began to walk toward the door.

Clark blocked her.

"Get the hell out of my way."

"No. I'm not leaving and neither are you. We're going to finish this. Tonight."

Diana's nostrils flared and she balled fists Clark knew itched to strike out at him. She was so good at controlling her emotions, and she was desperately trying to do so now. But the haunted glimmer in her eyes said she was quickly failing.

Then she threw her second punch-hard and quick.

"You have the emotional stamina of a two-year old, Clark. I don't need that. I don't need you."

That hurt. The truth was like that. But Diana would soon learn the extent of his emotional stamina. He would weather her storm. The question became if she could weather his.

"Then Bruce was wrong? You don't need me?"

"My husband," she said through gritted teeth, "thought he knew what was best for everyone. He was as loving as he was shrewd and pompous. And I'm sure it never once occurred to him that you may have had a family and a life of your own and would want nothing to do with a widow. Nor did it probably occur to him that it was not his place to arrange his wife's next husband or lover."

Diana stomped away from him but her words didn't cease. "Bruce Wayne was all about his god damn contingency plans. Well," she swung to face Clark, "I will not be one of his contingency plans. My life is my own. I won't allow my overprotective, egoistic, dead husband to dictate my future. And I sure as hell am not interested in a man who only showed up on my doorstep because another man gave him permission to befriend and bed his poor, mournfully pathetic wife."

And the blows kept coming. Diana may not have liked to fight, but the woman was a skilled pugilist.

"That's not why I'm here."

"Isn't it? Because you certainly didn't stick around after I awoke from my coma."

He blanched. Why hadn't it occurred to him that someone would've told her that he'd been at her hospital side then had run away? That should have been the first thing he explained.

She shook her head. "I don't blame you for leaving. I had to have been a wretched sight back then, as much the grieving widow as Bruce thought I would be. And since today seems to be all about confessions, Bruce was right about several things."

Diana reached down and picked up the letter. Her eyes scanned the page. "I don't handle loss well. And maybe if it had only been Bruce, I could've managed better than I did. But that bastard also took Brina from me. I wonder what he would have written you if he'd known that."

Clark fought every impulse inside him that screamed for him to go to Diana and draw her into his arms. But that wasn't what she needed. Yelling and unburdening herself was what Diana most required. He could take it, be her emotional heavy bag. Some of it he deserved, the rest he would absorb because he could, because she had absorbed so much worse from him.

She crumpled the paper between her fingers and tossed it in the small wastebasket beside her desk. "And I will find the men who murdered my family. I won't stop until I do. Bruce was also right on that point. But he had no right to invite you here, to offer me up like some guilt sacrifice for his perceived sins."

"I don't think—" The look she shot him said Diana could give a damn what Clark thought. Too bad. "He just wanted to protect you. Men do stupid things when they are in love."

"This isn't simply about my husband's love for me but about Bruce's need to control the uncontrollable. The thought of me being a single mother, forced to raise our child alone the way both our mothers did was one of Bruce's greatest fears."

Clark didn't bother asking what Bruce's greatest fear had been. _The same as mine, losing Diana._

"Bruce hated to be afraid of anything. And a fearful Bruce made for an extremely selfish Bruce. The favor he asked was insulting and presumptuous in the extreme. I want no part of it." She clutched her purse to her and eyed her closed office door over his shoulder, a nonverbal cue that the discussion was over. "You've done your duty, Clark Kent. You've tended to the widow of a slain friend who was never truly your friend at all - Ollie, John, and Arthur, yes, but never Bruce. It took me too long to realize that. He was only ever my friend and Bruce simply tolerated you in my life. So, you see, you owe Bruce Wayne nothing. Now get out of my way so I can leave and begin to put this trying day behind me."

"No."

"Damn you, Clark, why are you being so stubborn? I just released you. You don't need to play the martyr now because you feel guilty about what happened between us a decade ago. Go back to Metropolis and forget about me. Go back to your wife and son. They are the ones who need you; I do not."

"Are you finished?"

"Apparently not because you haven't moved and we're both still here."

This was the Diana he'd never known, the woman who'd made her mark in the political and business worlds with her quick mind and sharp tongue. She would've been more than a match for the arrogant genius that was Bruce Wayne. And she clearly thought that Clark was no match for her. _Time to prove Diana wrong._

Diana had a hand on the knob of the door before Clark reached her and spun her around to face him. Pressing her back to the door, he used his arms to cage her in, one on each side of her head. She could call for help from that burly bodyguard on the other side of the door. Diana could also knee him or do any manner of martial arts maneuver he knew she was trained in, Clark having spied her a time or two working out with Dinah Lance. But she would do none of those things. Not because she was afraid of the consequence, but because, deep down, Diana wanted to know if Clark had what it took to go after what he wanted – come hell or a raging Diana. _Emotional stamina. Oh, I got it, baby - an endless supply just for you._

Diana's chin lifted; a silent challenge to his physical overture.

"Just for the record, that damn letter is not why I'm here."

He leaned in closer, deliberately pressing his body against Diana's, enjoying her softness and her sharp intake of breath when their bodies seemed to melt into one another's. No matter her harsh words, her hurt pride, the woman's body was not indifferent to him. _Nice to know._

"I came because I could no longer not come. I came because it was what I should have done ten years ago. I let you go with Bruce. It made me sick, but I did it anyway. Then, the weak fool I'd been back then, I'd called and begged him to put you on the line. But you know what, Diana? I knew he wouldn't do it. I knew it because I would've done the same to him. When it comes to women, no matter how civilized we say we are, men are bloody and cutthroat and will do most anything to claim the prize."

"I'm not some prize to be won, Clark, and this isn't a game."

"No, it has never been a game. But your love is prize enough for any man. For Bruce. For me. I gave you up too easily, not to Bruce but to my own fears and insecurities. I could have stopped you before you left the farmhouse, but I didn't. I could have followed you when you jumped into Bruce's truck, but I didn't. I could have cast aside years of hurt and anger at my birth parents and accepted the love you gave so freely, trusting instead of fearing. But, no, I swallowed the bitter pill of abandonment until it choked me and destroyed us."

"It's over now, just let it be done and over with. Just move and we can end it all now."

Her deceptively calm voice didn't fool Clark. There was fight left yet in his Grecian warrior. This was just another one of her strategies. _A strategy that won't work._

"Tell me the last of it."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me what happened between you and Bruce after you left with him. I want it all out. Throw your final punch Diana so we can be done with the lies and secrets."

The truth he'd known the night of his call was sketched into every shamed line on Diana's suddenly reddened face. But, to her credit, she met his eyes and her words were as honest as they were painful.

"I slept with him."

And there it was; the truth he'd always suspected. After all these years, it hurt more than he thought it would.

Diana closed her eyes, her body seeming to cave in on itself. "I have no good reason to explain away my action that morning. You had broken up with me, true, but even that doesn't make what I did right. You say you should have come after me; I should have stayed with you. I should have done more than what I did. I shouldn't have allowed you to push me away. But I did because it was easier to give up hope then than wait for you to come back to me only to realize later that you would never return."

"Like you did with your father? You waited for his return, hoped and prayed for something that never came true. But I'm not him."

"In some ways you were. And in some ways, I was like your birth parents, loving you but also leaving you to fend for yourself."

She pushed against his chest, not hard, just enough to get his attention.

He didn't move.

Diana opened her eyes. And the fight was gone, just crystal tears remained.

"We only know how to hurt each other. I don't want to do that anymore. I've confessed to all my sins, and I suppose you have too. We can now part ways and finally put the past where it belongs."

"No."

"Damn you, Clark, stop saying that."

"I won't let you go again."

"You don't have a choice because I've let you go."

"No you haven't. Bruce said as much in his letter. That's why I know there's still hope for us."

"The letter said nothing about me still—"

Clark began removing pins from Diana's hair until the black nimbus cloud of silk fell to and past her shoulders. Taking a handful of the luscious tresses, Clark brought them to his face and smelled the lingering aroma of what he assumed was strawberry-scented shampoo.

"You should wear your hair down the way you used to. It makes a man want to run his fingers through it." And to demonstrate, he ran both hands through her hair, massaging her scalp in the process the way he used to do.

And she let him, unmoving and unspeaking.

"Bruce," he began, locking onto her eyes before continuing, "revealed more in his letter than he probably intended. Or perhaps, knowing him, it was a deliberate confession to a man he believed he'd wronged but he was too proud to write it outright."

Clark let her hair go, shifting his hold to her waist instead, unwilling to take the chance that she'd attempt an escape. He wasn't hardly finished with her yet.

"He openly admitted that you still cared for me, Diana. That much we both read. But what he also admitted with his so-called favor was that he knew he was your second choice."

Diana stiffened in his embrace, eyes once again fiery. But she said nothing, which, for Diana, was as good as a written confession of her own.

"Bruce Wayne, as much as he was your best friend and you loved him, was your second choice. Just as Lois was my second choice. The difference between your marriage and mine was that Bruce knew and accepted that going in and you loved Bruce the way a wife should love her husband. I wish I could claim the same. Lois and I were a good match. It should have worked between us but I held too tightly to the past. Our marriage was a mistake. I should've taken the time to get myself together before taking any woman as a wife. I should have done what I did three years ago and settled things between myself and my birth parents. I'm a different better person for it now, but far too late to save a marriage that was doomed from the beginning."

But he'd gotten a son from the union. And he wouldn't trade that for all the happy marriages in the world.

"Only thing you're saying is how messed up we truly are. You're saying we settled for other people because we didn't know how to have each other."

"No, I'm saying they settled for us. They should have chosen differently, and for their personal reasons they didn't. We should've done then what we've been doing for the last month, which is talking. Maybe we were too young, inexperienced and screwed up back then to have made a real go of it. But we aren't now."

"There is nothing between us, Clark. Why can't you see that? If we try, we'll just end up hurting each other again. I don't want that, for either of us."

"You're only saying that because you're afraid."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Yes and so am I. But I'm more afraid of not trying and living the rest of my life wondering what could have been than I am of failing after giving it my best shot."

"It won't work. I don't love you anymore, and you don't love me."

"But we still care for each other. You were the one who said that a woman's love didn't die or fade completely. You said it in reference to your mother and father, but I think you also were thinking of the two of us – what we once shared."

"We can't turn back the hands of time, Clark, no matter how tempting. We can only move forward."

"And that's all I'm asking – for us to consider moving forward together."

"It's not that easy."

"I never said it would be. We'll start small." He lifted her stubborn chin. "Beginning with that date you promised me."

"I can't believe, after all of this, you still want to go out on a date with me." There was bemused laughter in her tone.

He wanted far more than that. The way his hard, aroused body pressed against her made his want quite clear.

Diana, however, pretended not to notice, continuing to engage him in conversation as if they were back at Gotham Central Park, having a nice little chat on the bench and he couldn't feel the heavy rise and fall of her breasts against his chest.

"I think we owe this to ourselves. We gave up far too easily last time. On ourselves. On each other. I have the emotional stamina, Diana, and hope and faith. Do you?"

Clark stepped back, giving Diana the space she needed to flee her office, their past, his offer, and him, if that were her wish.

She pushed herself from the door just when her phone rang. Pulling the cell from her purse, Diana answered. "Yes, Alfred."

Clark didn't need to hear the other end of the conversation to know that Diana's driver was waiting for her downstairs. Apparently, there had been an accident and the older man had been in a long traffic jam. But he was here now and Diana was once again her composed self.

Ending her call, Diana lifted her chin and her eyes, taking his measure in one long perusal.

"I've never known you to be a gambling man."

"And from what I've seen, the new Diana doesn't walk away from a challenge."

"So where does that leave us?"

"With a first date to plan."

"I haven't been on a date in ages."

"Neither have I. Should prove interesting."

Diana opened the door.

The security guard stood only a few feet away. His back to them but turning when he heard them exit.

"Ready to go, Dr. Wayne?"

"Yes, Sam, and Mr. Kent will accompany us out."

The man nodded then placed himself on the other side of Diana.

They walked to the set of elevators and got on.

Three minutes later, Diana and Clark stood on the outside of her Bentley, the door open and Alfred doing an yeoman's job of pretending he wasn't paying them the least attention.

"I'm tired of regrets, Clark. I don't want to have anymore with you."

She still didn't trust him. That was okay. This was only the beginning. Their learning curve was steep, but if tonight was any measure of what they could accomplish, they would do fine. But Diana didn't need flowery words or promises, so Clark would give her none.

He twirled a lock of her hair around a finger and smiled at the progress they'd already made.

"Still on for Saturday?" he asked, knowing she'd implied as much in her office but also knowing that he needed Diana to actually say the words, not for himself, but for her own emotional commitment.

"Don't think," she said, getting into the car, "that you will bend me to your will by slow degrees."

"It never crossed my mind."

Diana's eyes narrowed but they were not cold, just acutely assessing. "I'll see you Saturday, Clark. For whatever it's worth, we'll either prove ourselves sentimental fools or . . ."

"Or what?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

With that, Alfred closed the door, and then took his place in the driver's seat.

Clark watched the older man pull out into the nighttime traffic and drive down the street.

Clark stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket and crossed the street to his own car. Getting into the vehicle, Clark reflected back on all that had happened tonight. What Diana had left unsaid did matter – to them both.

_Sentimental fools? _He thought not. _Or hopeless romantics capable of rekindling love? _That sounded so much closer to the truth, to the potential he saw in Diana's stormy, unsure eyes.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	23. Chapter 22: No Heavy Lifting

**Chapter 22: No Heavy Lifting**

**Gotham City**

**Part 1**

Diana sat on the top step of the Wayne Manor winding staircase, purse, car keys, and cell phone next to her. She'd showered and dressed more than an hour ago, putting on a white Crochet racer tank with a scooped neckline, true black clean front shorts with besom pockets, and pair of silver leather ballet flats. She was dressed comfortably, had everything she needed for a day out with Clark . . . and she was afraid to death.

A creak sounded behind her. Then another. And another. And another. A minute later, she had company on the step.

"Going somewhere, dear?"

"I haven't yet decided."

Diana looked down the steps and to the front door that loomed before her, feeling small and insecure. Then she turned to her mother-in-law, doing her best not to reveal the whirl of emotions churning within. Martha would only worry and Diana hated to stress the older woman. It was Diana's job to take care of Martha not the other way around.

"You've been in the same spot for twenty minutes. Won't you be late for your appointment?"

Appointment? Martha did have a way with understating the obvious. They both knew Diana was supposed to be going on a date with Clark. And, yes, if she didn't leave soon she would be late.

She didn't move.

"I was thinking that maybe—"

"Don't you dare cancel, Diana."

"Why not? I can stay home with you or we could go out and do something together."

"Don't do this. Don't use me as an excuse for your cowardice and fear."

Diana winced. Martha Wayne may appear to be nothing short of a demure lady of leisure, but she was quick-witted, subtly fierce, and brutally honest.

Martha linked her arm with Diana's and slid closer, bringing the scent of Cartier Goutte de Rose with her. "I've never made a secret of how much I love you, sweetie. Even before you married my son, I thought of you and Donna as daughters. But when you and Bruce did wed, my heart was so full of love and hope for you both. You were a wonderful wife to Bruce and a friend when he needed one the most. You loved him but also kept him grounded, didn't accept or put up with his overbearing ways. He needed that. You were his center and he was yours."

Martha squeezed Diana's arm, the way she'd done hundreds of times over the years. And Diana loved Martha just as much. In truth, Diana had been blessed to have three women in her life she thought of as mothers—Hippolyta, Martha Wayne, and Martha Kent. They were different women but all were strong, wise, and special in their own distinct way.

"But I'm afraid your mother and I haven't been the best role models for you, dear."

Diana cast shocked, disagreeing eyes at Martha.

Martha smiled and sweetly patted her hand. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. But it's true, at least in one respect. When our husbands left us, we moved forward but not on." She patted Diana's hand again. "There is a difference you know - the former is inevitable, the latter is voluntary. I suppose we could use motherhood as an excuse and our desire to devote all our time to our children. But that would be a lie. The truth, my dear, is that Hippolyta and I were cowards of the first order – too afraid of risking our hearts again. So you see, Diana, we made for the most poor of role models. Perhaps if we had tended to our loss better, moving on and fully living, you would now know how to do the same."

Diana shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you're actually encouraging me to forget about Bruce."

"That's not what I'm saying at all. Besides, you could never do that. Women never forget their husbands, not even the worst of them. No, Diana, what I'm saying is that Bruce has moved on to a place we cannot follow. We'll never have him back. He was my son and he made you happy. But, sweetie, you haven't been truly happy in three years. You've survived, you cope, and you live to take care of others and me. But what of yourself? What of Diana? I want you to be happy, to see you smile and mean it, to hear your laughter more than when Donna comes to visit. I want you to find love again and to have those babies I know you want so much."

Babies. Yeah, that was another reason for Diana's hesitancy. Unconsciously, she placed a hand on her flat stomach. "I don't know if I can still conceive or carry a baby to term." Her doctor hadn't been sure.

"If the right man loves you, dear, it won't matter to him."

Perhaps not, but it would matter to Diana. "It wouldn't be fair."

"Put down your bricks and mortar, Diana. For this one day, stop fortifying that wall of yours. Get out of the house and have fun with Clark. Just have fun. This old manor and this old woman will be here when you return."

Martha stood, compelling Diana to do the same. She nodded to Diana's purse, keys, and phone. "Get your things, dear, and be off. You're keeping that nice novelist waiting."

Diana grabbed the items, sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly. Martha was right; Diana was acting the coward. There seemed to be a consensus – everyone thought it past time for Diana to stop mourning her losses and to start living again. Her mind echoed the sentiment, but her heart . . . well, that organ would be much harder to bring into line.

Diana descended the stairs, threw Martha a kiss goodbye when she reached the door, and then exited the manor . . . without her bricks and mortar.

**Part 2**

**Gotham Central Park**

"How long do you plan on doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Smiling at me. It's kind of—"

"Sweet? Cute? Endearing?"

"Weird, Clark. It's weird."

Clark's smile widened, and he didn't give one iota if Diana thought it weird. He couldn't help it, she'd come. True to her word, Diana was here with him. On what Clark hoped was the first of many dates.

"I'm happy."

"So I'd gathered. But do you think you can be a little less happy? People are beginning to stare."

No one was paying them the least bit of attention. Diana was just hyperaware of Clark's undivided attention, which, without a doubt, was purposeful. They'd agreed to leave the heavy lifting that was their past for another day. There would be other times in which they'd have to talk, dredging up emotional fossils and dusting them off. But today was not one of those days. Today was about the present and only the present. Today was about reminding Diana that she was still a young, attractive woman capable of fun, laughter, and good times.

And she was so pretty today. Gone were the business suites she wore like an armor. Gone were the intimidating high heels and conservative bun that reminded all in her presence that she was in total control. And gone was one Steve Trevor, her shadow, protector and hopeful suitor.

She'd left all of those things behind today, coming to their date very much like the woman Clark used to know. Despite her embarrassed annoyance at his attentions, Diana was truly trying. It was hard for her, that much was obvious, but she was being a trooper. She'd even worn her hair down today, which Clark absolutely loved. She would probably deny it if he'd asked, but he knew she done it for him. And that, above anything else, told him that Diana was just as invested in this date as Clark was.

"The only person I care that is looking at me is you. Do you like what you see?" Clark stretched his arms out to the side and, with deliberate slowness, turned in a complete circle, showing off wide, muscular shoulders and arms that were covered in a white and black sleeveless sport shirt. He wore a pair of black basketball shorts with a thick white line that ran down the center on each leg and black jogging tennis with ankle socks. He was Saturday afternoon comfortable, ready for a day of summer fun with a woman who, _yes_, from the way Diana was staring at him when he'd finished his rotation, liked what she saw.

And the blush that followed was such a pretty shade of red.

"If you're finished displaying your wares, Clark, I think I would like to get on that ride over there."

Diana pointed to a roller coaster on the other side of the park. The thing was massive, and it looked awfully fast.

"Are you sure? It's seems to be the most popular ride here, which means the line is probably outrageous."

And Clark hated roller coasters, which was strange because he didn't mind flying at all, but there was just something about being strapped into a metal device with nothing more than a bar, chest harness and physics for protection.

Clark glanced up at the sign to the entrance of Gotham Central Park. It read: Gotham's Annual Founder's Day Festival. The park was full with people and plenty of outdoor activities: food and crafts, live music, history presentations and demonstrations, carnival games. Yet Diana, of course, wanted to ride the behemoth known as Darkseid. _Great. Just great._

"We have the entire day ahead of us, might as well do all the things we want to do."

"And you want to ride that blue and black coaster all the way over there when there is so much to do on this side of the park?"

"Sure do. Unless," she gave Clark a knowing look, "you're afraid of a little carnival ride."

"I'm not afraid . . . and where are you going?" Diana was walking away from him, winding her way through the congested crowd. Silently swearing at Diana's purposeful strides, Clark ran until he caught up with her. Grabbing her hand, he managed to slow her down.

And she was laughing – actually laughing at him.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't. But you should've seen your face when I pointed to the ride. I wish I had my phone out. I would've taken a picture and sent it to your mother. And John. And Ollie. And Arthur."

"Thanks a lot." Still holding her hand as they walked, Clark waited for Diana to realize what she was doing and tug her hand back. But by the time they'd reached the death-defying coaster, their hands were still clasped. Better yet, Diana had obviously decided to forego her normal walls today, which could be the only rational reason to explain how she'd managed to talk Clark into getting on the damn coaster with her.

And when it was over, the only thing that prevented him from tossing up his breakfast was the absolutely exuberant look on Diana's smiling face. The woman had screamed her joy during the entire ride, holding her arms aloft with each dip, turn, and drop. She was fearless. And crazy. And having fun.

But when she said, "Let's do that again," he nearly strangled the witch. Because, no way would he get on that freakin' death trap again. Worst, unbeknownst to Clark, Diana had purchased them a fast pass, which meant they could go to the front of any line, avoiding the normal wait. Who knew a smalltime carnival would have a goddamn fast pass? But it did, and, dammit, Diana had flashed her sixty-watt smile at Clark and he'd foolishly fallen for it, climbing his big frame, once more, onto Darkseid. The coaster was truly a monster, a villain above all villains.

"What do you want to do now?" Clark asked, deliberately pulling Diana away from the roller coasters and toward something much more grounded and benign. _Like throwing darts at balloons filled with water._

"But I wanted to also get on the Cheetah. It's supposed to be the fastest ride here."

Clark glanced to his right at the orange and black coaster, screaming riders moving at some outrageous Mach speed - upside down at that.

"You gotta be kidding me. I don't even think I can fit into one of those skinny seats." He hated to be a spoilsport but Diana had turned into a roller coaster enthusiast over the last ten years. Or maybe she always rode these rides when the festival was held. And she seemed to be having so much fun. He really did hate to ruin their first official outing.

"Just one ride, Clark, I've never done this before."

"Done what? Ride the Cheetah?"

"Attended the festival."

Clark frowned at her. He'd just assumed. She'd lived in Gotham for years and was only now participating in the citywide event?

Diana answered his confused frown with a comprehending smile. "Bruce didn't like large crowds. He also never liked how people fawned all over him when we went out together. The Wayne Foundation funds this event and the good citizens of Gotham liked to show their appreciation."

That was the first Diana had spoken to Clark of her marriage to Bruce. _Progress._

"He was the biggest philanthropist but didn't desire or seek recognition, which, I think, was why people tended to flock to him when he did make a public appearance."

"But you decided to attend this year, although you never have before. Why?"

"Because you asked. And," she eyed the Cheetah, "I've wanted to ride that coaster for years." She pointed to her left. "And I want to go in that haunted house by the kissing tree. I hear it's called the Phantom Zone."

Haunted house? Now that was something Clark could get with. But first . . .

"Not to take away any man points I may have earned with my abs and arms of steel, but really Diana, I'll hold your purse while you get on the ride."

Diana appeared as if she would argue, then looked longingly at the spinning, twirling coaster.

"Are you sure you don't mind, Clark?" she asked, already handing him her cute little clutch. "I promise I won't be long."

"No, go have fun. I'll be right here when you get off."

And then she was gone, fast pass in hand.

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through the Phantom Zone, Diana clutching his arm as if he were a lifeline. Clark was in heaven. Diana so did not do haunted houses, screaming and closing her eyes at the slightest creak, crack, and boom. Clark wrapped an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer to him, leading them through the maze of fire, creepy crawlies, and zombies.

When they emerged from the other end, Diana had her head buried against his chest. Caught up in the moment, Clark wrapped his other arm around her. He knew it was too soon for such an intimate embrace but he just couldn't seem to help himself. She felt and smelled so good. Having her turn to him for safety, even if it was because a stupid haunted house had frightened her, fostered a boldness in him he knew he should ignore.

But he didn't. He couldn't. They agreed to no heavy lifting, they never talked about touching, flirting, or kissing. And Clark so wanted to kiss Diana – to lift her chin, part her painted lips with his tongue, and delve deep within, twining, tasting, taking.

She stepped out of his embrace, her beautiful face flush with what Clark hoped was desire, but was more than likely heat from the warm June day.

"What would you like to do now? Have lunch, perhaps?"

Clark would like to have those full, tempting lips of Diana's for lunch. He could envision the meal now. He would take his time, nipping first then sucking, drawing out the rich flavoring with tongue, teeth, and lips. Then he would bite - gently, softly, worshipfully, enjoying each morsel, each mouthwatering taste that would explode in rapturous delight, filling him, curbing his craving.

"Lunch sounds great."

And it was.

So was the game of pick-up volleyball that had followed. Despite her tall height, Diana sucked at the sport. But that didn't stop the woman from trying . . . and failing. It didn't matter, she was having fun, and her silver shoes were somewhere on the grass where she'd thrown them when she'd discovered that expensive cutesy shoes weren't the best footwear for athletic play.

"Try to get the ball over the net this time."

"Shut up, Clark. You're not helping."

Tossing the white ball into the air as if she were a pro, Diana reared her hand back, leveled it forward, and made contact with the ball. It rushed through the air, its trajectory high. Over the net it went. And it kept going. And going. And going.

"Maybe I should have mentioned that over the net did not mean that you shouldn't also try to keep the ball in bounds." Clark watched the ball land a good twenty feet away. "And in this hemisphere, Diana. Good lord woman, you could've taken someone's head off with that monster serve."

She poked her tongue at him, and then said sheepishly to the other players, "I'll get it."

And four pair of masculine eyes, not counting his own, watched Diana jog to retrieve the ball. Clark didn't like it, but he also couldn't blame them. The same four men also watched her return, stumbling over themselves to help her with her serve when she reached the makeshift volleyball court. _That_ he did mind.

But Clark did nothing about it. He wasn't that same jealous, insecure young man he'd been. If he were to be with Diana—and he intended to be—he would have to get used to men noticing and even flirting with her. And that, Clark knew, was the real reason why Bruce Wayne had never brought Diana to the Founder's Day Festival. All that stuff about not liking crowds was a bunch of bullshit. Bruce Wayne knew exactly what he had in Diana. And what he had was a beautiful, intelligent, sweetly fun wife who innocently charmed men wherever she went. _Perhaps I wasn't the only jealous, insecure one._

By the end of the day, Clark felt like a new man – rejuvenated and reborn. Their first date had gone much better than he'd dared imagine. And it was all because of Diana. Admittedly, he'd done nothing special. His goal was to be himself. Not much of a goal, but he needed Diana to see him for the man he now was, to see the man that was offering for her so she could honestly determine if he was the kind of man she wanted to roll the dice on. Again.

Yet it was Diana, whom he'd feared had changed her mind when she wasn't at the park by the designated time. He'd waited nearly twenty minutes before he saw her walking across the street and to the park's entrance. He'd let out a relieved breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

She'd apologized for being late but offered no explanation. But she did have a determined twinkle in her eyes, which Clark had decided to take as a good sign. And, thankfully, it had been.

"Did you have fun?"

They were standing by her car, a shiny burgundy Jaguar that had a classy yet powerful build. It reminded Clark of Diana, her personality as well as her amazing body.

"You know I did."

Yeah, he did.

"I just wanted to make sure. You know, in the event I wanted to ask you out again. I might need references."

Diana laughed. "You plan on asking me for references for a date with me?"

"Of course. Who better? Besides, other than my ex-wife, you were the last woman I dated."

"Seriously?"

"Yup. Pretty pathetic, but there you have it."

"Not pathetic, Clark, sweet," she said, her tone low but her eyes were fixed on him.

"That's me, Sweet Clark Kent, the boy next door."

"There's nothing wrong with sweet. It's nice to know you still are, after all these years."

Okay, and he wanted to kiss her again, show Diana that sweetness came in a variety of flavors – naughty with rainbow sprinkles being one of them.

He cleared his throat. "So how about the Fourth of July? You know, cookout, fireworks."

The slightest unease rose in Diana's eyes. "I already have plans for that day. Each year Martha throws a get together at the Manor. She invites family and friends. Most of Wayne Industries employees attend as well."

"That sounds like a lot of people and a lot of fun. Unless, of course, that wasn't an invitation you just extended me."

"Like I said, it will be at Wayne Manor."

"I know."

"That doesn't bother you? You know . . ."

Oh. Oh. Damn he could be dense sometimes. "Will it bother you to have me there?"

She looked undecided. "It shouldn't."

"But will it?"

"I don't know. Today was a good start for me, Clark. I really had a great time with you. I didn't know if I would. Truthfully, I thought I would screw everything up, but you made it so easy - no pressure, no heavy lifting, which allowed me to relax and just enjoy myself. Thank you for that."

"Thank you for trusting me. Tell you what; we don't have to do July 4th. We can go out another time. You pick."

Diana played with the keys in her hand, her eternal battle shown across her face. Finally, she said, "Be at the Manor by two o'clock."

"Are you sure?"

"Bring an extra outfit and a pair of trunks for swimming. Ollie, John, and Arthur will be happy to see you, as will Donna. She's been dying to talk to you about your latest novel."

Before he could respond, or perhaps before she lost her nerve and changed her mind, Diana slipped into her car and drove away, a little wave her only goodbye.

Well, it wasn't a kiss, but he did have another date. As Thomas Jefferson once said, "Our greatest happiness does not depend on the condition of life in which chance has placed us, but is always the result of a good conscience, good health, occupation and freedom in all just pursuits."

And Diana's heart was Clark's most just pursuit.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	24. Chapter 23: Friendly Relations

**Chapter 23: Friendly Relations**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

Clark gaped. There was no other word for it. He simply gaped, mouth open, eyes wide, body rooted to the ground. It had to be the biggest damn building in all of Gotham. It certainly was in competition with Gotham Central Park for the honor of the largest amount of acreage.

"Wayne Manor. My god, Diana lives here." Hell, he'd known it was a manor but—_damn_—it was really a manor – huge and imposing. And the rolling acres of lawn that surrounded it were impressive and beautiful in the extreme. Not one shrub or bush wasn't cut to an unnatural designer perfection. Whoever provided lawn care had to be rolling in the green, and not the immaculately manicured lawn kind of green.

"Crazy isn't it. No matter how many times I come here, the monstrosity still manages to take me by surprise."

Clark smiled, recognizing the deep, baritone voice. He turned. "You still have those amazing ninja skills I see, John. The Marine Corps would be proud."

"Nice to see you, too, Clark." John extended a large hand and the men shook. "I didn't expect to see you at this shindig. But I'm glad Diana invited you." John arched one dark brow. "Diana did invite you, didn't she? You aren't a party crasher I'll have to grab by the scruff of his neck and haul away?"

For a minute, a very long minute, Clark wasn't quite sure if John was joking. After his breakup with Diana, Clark had pretty much cut off all contact with their mutual friends, figuring they were more Bruce and Diana's friends than his own. And John had always had a strange, dry sense of humor. So . . .

"I'm just joking with you, man. I can manage a joke every now and then. Besides, how else am I to prove my wife wrong – that I don't have a stick up my ass?"

Clark stared at the man, amazed that John Stewart, former marine and respected architect, was actually making fun of himself . . . and treating Clark like . . . like a real friend. He'd just assumed, like so many things in his life ten years ago, that Ollie, John, and Arthur had only accepted him into their tight knit circle because they were old college friends of Diana's. _Maybe I was wrong about that too._

"Where is that lovely wife of yours, anyway?" And John's wife –Mari Jiwe Stewart—was indeed as lovely a woman as Clark had seen – her flawless cocoa skin and Zambesi accent an exotic mix that the hardcore John Stewart obviously couldn't resist.

"I asked her to drop me off at the bottom of the hill. I like the walk. Don't get nearly as much exercise these days." He pointed to the road that wind its way from the bottom of the hill and up to and around the manor. "She'll park the car then go in search of Diana and the others. We have a board meeting. It shouldn't be too long unless Ollie begins talking. Once that happens, only his wife can shut him up."

"With a kiss?" Clark joked.

John snorted. "Hell no, with a punch to the gut. That normally does the trick. Dinah is a martial artist. She owns several all-women martial arts centers in Star City called Birds of Prey." Before Clark could ask, John raised one hand palm up. "I have no idea. And unless you want a punch to your gut, I suggest you don't ask. Only the women she trains knows the reason behind the strange name. Worst, they call her Sifu Black Canary, which, considering she's blond and as white as she is lethal, I really don't get it."

Clark didn't either. "What about Ollie? I can't imagine he doesn't know why his wife goes by Black Canary."

"Not even him. Hell, he couldn't convince her to take his last name. You would think a billionaire, owner of Queen Industries and expert business negotiator could persuade his wife to tell him why she named herself after birds that were once used for mine safety as a warning system because the toxic gases in the mines would kill the canary before the miner."

"Ah, watch a lot of _Jeopardy_, do ya, John."

"Maybe. And the fact that Mari is a vet helps with the random animal facts I've—unfortunately—accumulated over the years. If she can listen to old military stories I know she could give a damn about, the least I can do is muster up an interest in animal rights abuses. Even when said canary abuse ended in 1987."

Clark gave a smile he hoped didn't betray his spark of envy. John and Mari seemed to have the kind of marriage Clark and Lois had never had. He wondered about Dinah and Ollie, as well as Arthur and Mera. Did they, too, have a solid marriage – the kind of marriage his parents had? Or did they stay together for financial reasons or their children? Heck, did they even have children? Clark was so behind the times. Just these few minutes talking with John reminded Clark how much he'd lost when he and Diana had broken up – how much he'd missed the men who had indeed befriended him.

Side by side, Clark and John began the trek up the hill.

"So, you and Diana are dating now, I hear."

"Who told you that? We've only been on one date."

"My wife, of course. And before you ask who told her and who else knows, I'll just say two words – Donna and everyone. Well, technically, I guess those were three words, but you get my point."

Yeah he did. The female gossip pipeline was strong and obviously in effect.

Unable to stop himself, Clark asked, "How do you feel about that? About me dating Diana again?"

The tall, solidly built man shrugged. "It's not for me to feel anything about it. You two are grown."

"Okay, sure, but you must have an opinion." Clark stopped walking. From what Clark remembered, John Stewart had been an honest, stand up kind of guy, not quick to anger but ready to stand by a friend's side when things got tough. _A true Marine, through-and-through._ "Just . . . just tell me what you think? I really don't want to mess this up again." And part of messing things up with Diana was failing to value and appreciate the people in her life. No matter John's opinion, Clark would continue to date Diana, only she could put a halt to that. But Clark needed to know what or who he was up against. Who had his back and who he might need to have a man-to-man with.

Clark figured John knew all about how he'd messed things up the first time. Yet he had yet to call him on it, not even three years ago when he showed up—unexpected and uninvited—at the hospital. He did, however, call Clark out when he turned tail and ran. He might not like what John Stewart might have to say, but Clark at least knew the man would give it to him straight.

Dark brown eyes bored into Clark, focusing on him with an intensity that would unsettle a lesser man. Clark returned the stare, unflinching and unafraid of what John would see as he dissected him, penetrating gaze by penetrating gaze.

"Back then," John began, his tone firm but not unkind, "Ollie, Arthur and I wanted to kick your and Bruce's asses. You for the way you ended things with Diana and Bruce for the way he took advantage. After that day at the farm, one of us should've stayed with her. No way should we have allowed Bruce to tend to her. Diana was fragile and needy and not thinking straight."

John sighed as if he was somehow to blame for Diana choosing to sleep with Bruce. He wasn't, but Clark didn't misinterpret the look of regret on the man's face.

"It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened between them. They didn't speak on the ride to the airport - to each other or us. Diana was an emotional wreck – shame and guilt hung from her like a Boa Constrictor, suffocating her. Then she left. She just packed her things, caught a flight to only god knows where. Hippolyta and Donna were beside themselves."

They resumed their walk. No way could Clark stand still and listen to this. He and John were doing the heavy lifting Clark and Diana had put on hold.

"As bad shape as Diana had been in when the two of you broke up, it paled in comparison to the wreck she became when Bruce and the baby were killed. It's Diana's tale to tell not mine, but trust me when I say it wasn't pretty."

From the way John's voice lowered and his eyes got a faraway, haunted look, Clark knew Diana must've been in an awful way back then. He'd never forgotten her screams when she'd awoken to learn she'd been the only survivor – her husband and unborn child ruthlessly stripped from her life.

"She's much better now."

"Better but not good?"

John didn't answer Clark. Did he really need the man to spell out the obvious? _No, no I don't._

"You asked me my opinion. Well, here it is." John was the one who stopped this time. His hand went to Clark's shoulder. The heavy, hard slap had Clark wincing from the intentional power of it. "Diana needs a man she can trust and who will love and trust her in return." Still grasping his shoulder, John gestured to the manor before them and the rolling knolls that was Diana's front lawn, with his free hand. "All of this is inconsequential bullshit to Diana. She has more money than she can spend or knows what to do with. None of that matters to her beyond how she can use it to help those less fortunate than herself. I don't know if you are the man for her, Clark, only you and Diana can answer that question. But one thing I do know is that if you hurt her, if you add one more heartache to a woman whose had to contend with far too many, I will kick your ass this time."

With that uncharacteristic, but all too serious threat, John removed his hand and began walking.

Clark didn't need the warning nor was he offended by it. No one knew how much he'd changed.

"You think you can take me, John? You think the Marines made you that tough?"

John laughed, not bothering to turn around when he said, "You are one big bastard, Clark, I'll give you that. I might have to call in support."

"Who? Ollie and Arthur?"

Clark's long strides had him next to John in a matter of seconds.

"You wish. No, Clark, I'd only need Dinah. Hell, now that I think about it, she wouldn't need my help at all. I could just sit back and watch her lay you out in two seconds flat."

"That good, hmm?"

"Yeah, that good. And she looks so damn innocent, too. Beautiful but deadly."

"Maybe that's what she should've named her business."

"Yeah, well, that would've made too much sense. But you're right and so am I. Her students are both beautiful and deadly. Don't ever forget that, Clark."

Why in the hell did he need to remember that? He didn't know any of Dinah's students. Clark thought for a minute and realized he knew one of Sifu Black Canary's students quite well. _Diana._

"Is that your way of warning me about Diana?"

Saying nothing, John picked up his pace. They didn't speak for a couple of minutes and Clark wondered what John had meant. He hadn't spoken in haste or without thought, but neither did he now seem inclined to elaborate. Clark inwardly shrugged. It didn't matter; he would soon learn all there was to know about Diana Wayne – not through her friends or family but from the lady herself. When she grew to trust him—and Clark knew she eventually would—Diana would open up, an Oleander turning toward the sun. _Oleander, a beautiful but deadly flower._

"I sure hope you're the one because I don't think I can stomach if she chooses Trevor," John said, pulling Clark away from his thoughts. "That guy doesn't know how to catch a clue. He actually thinks he'll be able to control her." John gave a cynical laugh. "No one can do that and only an arrogant fool would try. Not even Bruce made that mistake."

Nice to know someone else felt as Clark did about Steve Trevor.

"He's an excellent Head of Security. I can't deny him that."

They rounded the house. White tents and cabanas abounded, as did people. Diana hadn't been kidding. Martha Kent must've invited every Wayne Industries employee. There had to be at least a couple hundred people milling about – talking, dancing, eating, and swimming.

Men and woman in white chef hats and jackets stood behind large, stainless steel barbeque grills. Smoke billowed into the air and the smells wafting from the grills had Clark's mouth watering. At one point, such extravagance would've made him feel uncomfortable, self-conscious. Now he just wanted to find Diana and have fun. Perhaps he could even coax a smile or two out of her. Maybe even steal a kiss.

John glanced at his watch. "Look, man, I gotta go. Diana's meeting will begin in ten minutes and she's a beast when it comes to lateness." He checked his watch again. "Umm, does she know you're here? I mean, she never double-book."

And she hadn't today. It was only twelve thirty. Clark was over an hour early. Too anxious to sit in his hotel room, Clark had showered and dressed and let his GPS show him the way to Wayne Manor. Once the valet had parked his car, Clark had walked back down the winding road to get a better look at the place.

"I'm early. She told me to be here at two."

John nodded. "I guess that means she's planning on cutting our meeting short. That also means she'll expect us to meet one more time before we head back home."

There was much Clark didn't know or understand about Diana's business dealings. Obviously, John Stewart not only knew a great deal, but was also a member of her board. He wondered who the other members were. _Ollie, Arthur, and Hippolyta probably._

"Look, I'll let Diana know you're here. We'll be in the downstairs conference room. Ask any of the house staff and they can point you in the right direction." John patted his shoulder again, but with none of the fierce protectiveness as before. "Stick around this time, Clark Kent. Some of us actually like seeing that mug of yours. And, from what I hear, Diana had a good time with you last week. Keep it up, farm boy, and Ollie, Arthur, and I just might take care of your pesky Trevor problem."

With that bit of cryptic brotherhood, John sauntered away from Clark and into the manor.

With ninety minutes to kill, Clark grinned broadly, rubbed his hands together, and made his way to the closest barbeque grill – his stomach growling in hungry anticipation.

Five minutes later, plate full of ribs, chicken, potato salad, and coleslaw, Clark found a table to join. There were a couple of people already sitting at the table, a man and a woman, neither of whom paid Clark any heed when he sat. No, they were too into each other, the man clearly preoccupied by whatever the redhead was whispering in his ear.

Picking up his fork, Clark dug in. And the food tasted better than it smelled; the meat so tender and juicy that it virtually fell from the bone.

"Is someone sitting here?"

Like John earlier, Clark recognized the voice of the person who'd walked up beside him. Wiping his mouth then looking up, Clark wasn't surprised to see Talia Head staring down at him. Over the last few weeks, he'd heard her voice often enough – either on the phone or speaking to Diana. It was a sultry kind of voice that made a man take notice.

"Ah, no. No one is sitting here." But that didn't mean he wanted the woman's company.

She sat.

"Nice to see you again, Ms. Head. Happy Fourth of July to you."

Her smile was casual with a touch of flirty appeal. "Call me Talia. May I call you Clark? Today is a holiday, no need for our usual formalities."

"Ah, sure. No problem. Are you enjoying yourself?"

The casual smile broadened and her eyes began to dance. Then her gaze languidly drifted from his face, down his chest, and to his legs, his athletic shorts falling to his knees, preventing her from taking in even more of him. But Talia had taken in enough, her perusal blatant and full of sexual interest.

_I so do not need this crap now, and damn sure not from a woman who Diana has admitted to not trusting._

And Clark couldn't help but wonder what this was all about. Until today, Talia Head hadn't given him a second look. Yet today she was looking her fill.

"I'm enjoying myself now, Clark. Although," she said, lifting a hand and placing it on his bicep and squeezing, "with a man as strong and as handsome as you are, I'm sure there are things we could do together that would make this event much more enjoyable. And I so enjoy fireworks." Her hand slithered from his bicep, up his chest, and settled around his neck, her body leaning into him – much closer than she'd been a moment ago. "Do you like fireworks, Clark?"

Any closer and Talia would be in his lap. Without a doubt, the woman was beautiful. _But is she also deadly? Diana doesn't trust her, so maybe I shouldn't either. _Even if Diana was wrong about Talia Head, Clark wasn't interested in the woman. The bold, direct approach and skimpy bathing suit notwithstanding, Clark only had eyes for one woman. _Diana. _And she damn sure wouldn't appreciate having her secretary pawing all over him.

Clark had to put an end to this. The last thing he wanted was for someone to see him with Talia and leap to the wrong conclusion. How in the hell would he explain that to Diana?

Talia began to caress his neck, her smile coquettish; her lips far too close for comfort. "What do you say, Clark? We're both single and here alone. We could have an Independence Day revelry for two."

Talia's audacity was now just pissing him off. Granted, she had no way of knowing Clark was dating her boss. Still, her pushy approach was more off-putting than enticing.

"Listen, Talia," he began smoothly, needing her away from him but not wanting to hurt her feelings, "I don't think—"

"Don't you two make a cute couple."

_Shit._ Of all the people who could've seen him with an amorous Talia Head, it had to be . . . "Trevor."

Extricating himself from the still smiling viper, Clark stood.

"I see you're making use of all Diana has to offer."

Clark considered decking the guy. He didn't like his tone or his indelicate implication.

"I'm waiting for Diana to finish her meeting."

Trevor's eyes shifted to Talia, who, for her part, had her body fully in her own chair now, eyes diverted as if she weren't listening.

"Yes, well, I see how you're spending that time," Trevor drawled, his voice cold, his lean frame and obvious quick judgment unyielding.

There was nothing Clark could say to convince the pain in the ass Steve Trevor that what he'd witnessed wasn't as it appeared. Talia had just given Diana's Head of Security and lust puppy all the ammunition he needed to turn Diana against him. "_Diana needs a man she can trust."_ John's words suddenly echoed like a buzz saw in his head.

Trevor took one more disapproving look at Talia and then Clark before walking away and toward the manor. "I'll let Diana know you're waiting for her."

Yeah, Clark knew that wouldn't be the only thing the jerk would tell Diana. _Fuck and double fuck._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	25. Chapter 24: The Ties That Bind

**Chapter 24: The Ties That Bind**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

**Part 1**

Talia refrained from smiling, refrained from glancing behind her to see the scowl she knew had to be on Steve Trevor's holier than thou face. Her little impromptu strategy had worked much better than if she'd planned for days. Having seen Clark sitting by himself, Talia had seized the opportunity to add a dash of sexual mischief to Lex's plan.

He need not know all she did while she spied for him and her father. Clark Kent would be her plan and her plan alone. The man was, after all, bodybuilder gorgeous. Bedding such a fine specimen would give her much pleasure. But not as much satisfaction as taking him from Diana would give her. _Diana Wayne, that stuck up, meddling bitch._

She despised Diana. _Bruce had the nerve to leave me for that whining momma's girl. _And he had paid. Talia had made sure that Bruce Wayne had paid dearly for the insult. _No one treats the daughter of Ra's al Ghul like trash and get away with it. _

Now she had a chance to dig yet another knife into Diana's back. Clark, good ole Clark Kent and his dreamy blue eyes never failed to turn all pathetically moony when Diana was around. Talia had seen that same look in Bruce's face when he'd come to her ten years ago after a trip to Kansas. He'd come to her apartment and had broken things off with her, saying he was sorry but he was in love with someone else. And he'd replayed that hurtful record when Talia had told him she was pregnant with his child.

It had been a lie, of course, but he'd only said, "I take care of my responsibilities. Let me know what you and the baby require and I'll make sure you'll have it." And that had been it. No offer of marriage or declaration of love, nothing but a suspicious stare that had called her a liar.

He'd called her bluff and had won. His frigid words of, "Don't ever call me again. I'm married now. It's over, Talia. It's been over for two years. Stay away from me and don't you dare think of coming near my wife," was a blade driven into her heart by a man she'd loved. But he'd abandoned her. _For Diana Prince. The whore._

_But now there is Clark Kent._ Talia didn't know their backstory but it was obvious Diana and Clark had once been more to each other. For a woman who never seemed to take an interest in any man, Talia had seen the way she looked at Clark when Diana thought no one was watching. Those few times she'd caught it, the wistful longing had been unmistakable. And while Diana seemed quite indifferent to Trevor's interest, Clark was another matter entirely.

So, seeing Clark by himself, Talia sought to slake an appetite. And sex had always been an easy tool to seek one's revenge. But jealousy and betrayal were also nice. And from the way Trevor had just stormed off, she had no doubt he would carry the tale of Diana's scantily clad Executive Assistant and the man she treated with controlled, cautious desire, back to the queen bitch herself. _Delicious. Utterly delicious._

At the thought, Talia licked her lips.

"Nicely done. I suppose you did that on purpose."

Talia bestowed her most charming smile on the frowning Clark Kent. Men were too easy, especially men like this one who had more respect than sense. He should've never permitted her to get so close, to touch him. Had he really thought no one would notice? Hardly. The people who worked at Wayne Industries noticed everything. And the rumor around the office was that Diana and the novelist were dating.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She touched the arm of the chair beside her. "Why don't you come back down here so we can finish our conversation?"

He didn't move. And her false smile wavered just a bit when he said, voice low and menacing, "I don't know what you're up to, Ms. Head, but I assure you, any plans you have will not succeed. I won't allow it. Try me. Just. Try. Me."

Talia glared at Clark Kent's back as he turned and walked away, putting distance between them and dismissing her as recklessly as Bruce had. _Your mistake, Mr. Kent. Your mistake . . . and your funeral._

**Part 2**

"What else have you discovered about the so-called League of Assassins?"

Victor tapped several keys on his laptop, and then a series of pictures appeared on the flat screen mounted on the wall. Diana, like everyone else in the conference room, stared at the images before them.

"Who are they?" Arthur asked.

"They look dangerous," Hippolyta said, voicing Diana's opinion.

Donna and Dinah nodded, as did Ollie, who leaned forward in his chair, his face taut with a seriousness he reserved for the most important of business and personal matters.

Ollie twisted one end of a long, blond mustache and asked, "Yeah, Vic, who are those creeps?"

"The older man at the top of the hierarchy chart is the one and only Ra's al Ghul. From what Steve and I have been able to scrounge up, Ghul, also known as the 'Demon's Head,' founded this band of assassins. Apparently, Ra's al Ghul is an international criminal mastermind whose ultimate goal is a world in perfect balance. He believes that the best way to achieve this balance is to eliminate most of humanity. The bastard has a preference for biological weapons."

"Kill the people; leave the land - quite tidy for a megalomaniac."

"Yeah, Dinah, and Ghul is a genius." Victor highlighted the row under the picture of Ghul. "This, as we all know, is one Talia al Ghul, a.k.a. Talia Head. She's the Demon's Head's lying little spawn."

Diana listened as Victor identified the other members of Ghul's League of Assassins: Nyssa Raatko, another daughter of Ghul, Ebeneezer Darrk, a master manipulator, and a martial artist simply known as "The Sensei." That guy had piqued Dinah's interest. But there had been more, so many more.

"That's all I know. I'll keep searching, connecting with the new Leaguers around the world. That Amnesty International speech of yours, Diana, led to much of this. We've been inundated with phone calls and e-mails. The Justice League hotline has been on fire."

"That's because people are tired of being weak and feeling helpless," Donna said. "They need something to believe in. They need hope. They need justice."

"This is going to get worse, isn't it?"

Everyone turned to the speaker. Mera, her hair as fiery as her spirit, and the red tresses were as wild and wonderfully bright as ever. Her husband covered her hand with his own, a sweet protective gesture that brought a stab of envy to Diana's heart.

"Try not to worry, Mera," Arthur said.

"I'm not just worried. I'm angry. We are so few and they are many, yet we are all that stand between them and everyone else. We go places, do things that law enforcement will not or cannot. And that puts us all in danger, especially Diana."

"I'll take care of Diana." Steve, who'd been quietly standing by the door, stepped forward. "No harm will come to her."

"You can't be everywhere, Steve, even though you try your best. My point," Mera said, looking directly at Diana, "is that sooner or later Ghul or maybe even Luthor will send someone after her. They have to know by now that we know who they are and what they did to Bruce."

"But we can't prove anything," Hippolyta cut it. "Everything we know or think we know about the night of the attack and the party or parties responsible are sheer speculation. Once we have proof, we can go to the authorities, until then, we have nothing but our good sense and gut feeling."

"Bruce had proof," Donna added. "He saved it on a file and sent it to John, Ollie, and Arthur. Surely that is enough to call in the FBI." She looked to Steve for confirmation.

He shook his head. "At most it proves someone at Lexcorp bribed Bruce's Board of Directors to get information on Wayne Industries' projects. It doesn't implicate Ghul at all and the documents were illegally obtained. No way will the FBI use illegally acquired evidence to build a case against someone, especially someone as high-profile as Lex Luthor."

"So where does that leave us?" John asked. "I still have connections with the Corps. If we need it, I can get us help on that front. There are some good, tough guys who wouldn't mind getting their hands dirty for a good cause."

"Or," Diana said, not liking the way the men in the room eyes sparkled at John's suggestion. At one point or another over the last three years, they had all suggested going that route. In the beginning, even Hippolyta had thought it a good idea saying, "For what they did, they deserve to die."

Diana hadn't disagreed. In truth, a part of her, and not a small part, had wanted to nod her head, close her eyes, and let them do their worst. And while, on the face of it, it would have been the easiest and quickest approach to take, it also would've been the hardest to live with, to reconcile with her own heart and mind. No way would Diana sanction such actions. No way would she condone the killing of anyone, even a murderer. And no way could she allow her family and friends to condemn themselves to the Blackest Night that would surely come the moment they stepped across that line.

"Or," she repeated, "we could use Talia to set a trap."

Hippolyta eyed Diana with suspicion. "What kind of trap? And," she said, getting to her feet and walking the length of the table until she stood next to Diana, "it better not involve my daughter using herself as bait."

All eyes were now on Diana and Hippolyta. And there was nothing friendly in their hard, searching gazes.

"Diana would never do something so stupid," Steve said.

"If that's what she's planning," Donna said, "it's not a stupid plan. In fact, it makes too much sense. It's just a damn dangerous one that no _rational_ person should ever consider. Isn't that right, sis?" There was a warning to Donna's tone that was unmistakable, as was the quaver of fear that hummed beneath.

Diana knew her plan to be a sound one. She also knew it to be insanely risky. She'd first thought of it right after the murder of her family, and it had stayed with her. Back then, the only thing that had kept her from putting the plan in motion was the thought of how her death would pain her mother and sister. Her life meant little to her then, she could have easily laid down beside Bruce and Briana and fallen into an eternal sleep. _But what of the ones you will leave behind, the ones who will mourn and miss you?_ Her conscience had pleaded.

Now, well now she had no desire to die. But she would see no harm come to her family and friends, and if that meant she had to risk sacrificing herself to save them, well, so be it.

_What about Clark?_ her damn conscience asked now.

_What about him?_

_Your death would crush him. You know how he feels about you._

_I don't._

_You do. Stop lying to yourself, stop being so damn afraid._

_I'm not afraid._

_Ha, another lie. You don't fear death, true. But you fear life. You fear love._

_Shut up and leave me alone._

_I can't._

_Why not?_

_Because we're one and the same. Where you go, I go._

"The meeting's adjourned."

No one moved.

"I said the meeting is over. We'll pick up this discussion tomorrow. For now, get out and have fun. Alfred and Martha put in a lot of work to make this event enjoyable for all. You can skewer me alive on Friday. But for now just go."

No one was pleased, least of all Hippolyta and Donna. But they all did as she'd asked and left, grumbling their displeasure as they went.

"What are you still doing here?" she asked.

"We need to talk."

"Not now, Steve. Didn't you hear what I said? Tomorrow."

"Not about that; although, hell yes, we will talk."

Already he was pissing her off. More and more, he managed to do that, taking liberties and crossing lines.

"What then?" She glanced at the wall clock – ten after two. She was late for her date with Clark. "I have plans so make this quick."

"With Kent?"

"How did you . . .? Never mind. Just tell me what's bothering you."

Pulling out the chair to her right, Steve sat.

"I saw Clark earlier with Talia."

"So?"

"They looked awfully chummy. She had some slinky bikini on and was damn near straddling him. I swear, if I'd come on the scene five minutes later, they would've been making out."

Dumbfounded, Diana could only stare at Steve. Was he crazy or drunk?

"I saw them with my own two eyes, Diana," he said with vehemence. "I. Saw. Them."

"I'm sure you saw something. But I doubt it was anything like you would have me to believe."

"Talia was all over Clark."

"I'm sure she was. And what was Clark doing?"

That stopped him, his eyes dropping just for a second, and then they were back on her. "He let her."

"That doesn't answer my question. What was Clark doing?"

"Nothing," he gritted out. "He was doing nothing, just sitting there letting her grope him."

Diana should have been angry with Steve for bringing such foolishness to her. She should've burned his ears with words of disapproval. Instead, she cupped his chin and said with feeling, "Don't be _that_ guy, Steve."

"What guy?" he asked, dawning understanding drawing his eyes downward.

"Please look at me."

He lifted his eyes.

"Do you have any idea how much I value and respect you?"

He nodded.

"Good, then you must also know that I trust you."

"I do."

"Then you'll understand when I tell you that the opinion you have of Clark Kent holds no merit with me. He is not your rival for my affections. I will not be swayed by foolish male pride and possessiveness." Diana dropped her hand from his chin. "We both know Talia is a first-class liar and manipulator. We also know that she hates me because Bruce married me and not her."

"I know but—"

"Clark may have his faults, Steve, as do you, as do I. But unfaithfulness is not one of them." Not that he owed her fidelity. But such details were for Clark and Diana to muddle through not Steve. He didn't factor into this at all – except, of course, his false accusation that was meant to cast Clark in a bad light.

"I'm going to assume your intentions were honorable and that you weren't deliberately trying to stir up trouble for your own selfish gain."

"He's not right for you."

So he'd said before. So she was tired of hearing.

"I'm a big girl. You can't protect me from everything." _Even from your jealousy. Careful, my friend, jealousy has felled many a good man._

"Is Shayera Hol still assigned to Talia?"

"Yeah." He looked down at his watch. "Zatanna will take over second shift in about an hour."

"Good. I want to know her every movement while she's on the property. I don't think she'll try anything, but I don't put it past her to take advantage of the crowd and festivities and do a little snooping."

"Neither do I. I'll call Zee and give her a heads up."

Steve stood, began to walk toward the door, and then stopped and looked back at Diana.

"Leave it. I'm not in the mood."

With an annoyed grimace, he left it and the conference room.

A moment later, Clark strolled through the door Steve hadn't closed.

"Sorry, I'm late."

"I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's late, Clark."

Diana rose, her foul mood beginning to ebb the longer Clark smiled at her with that delightfully boyish grin of his. It was distracting and altogether too appealing. Then like a receding tide, it disappeared.

"We need to talk about Talia."

"No need, Steve already told me."

Clark swore under his breath. "I just bet he did. If you'll give me a minute, I can explain."

"There's nothing to explain, Clark. I told you already, I don't trust Talia."

"That's not the same as trusting me."

No, no it wasn't.

Diana made her way to Clark's side. "I don't distrust you, Clark. If I did, I would have never invited you to the home I shared with Bruce. That wasn't an easy decision for me, I will admit. Nothing about seeing you again has been easy."

In truth, it had been damn hard but also surprisingly rewarding. Diana had always wanted closure between the two of them but feared it would never happen. And when she was finally given the opportunity, she'd been afraid to embrace it. Just as she was still afraid to fully embrace the possibility of a second chance. But she was no longer opposed to the idea. Despite everything, she had never completely purged Clark Kent from her system. And now Diana knew she never truly would. It was as much an impossibility as the idea that Clark was having a tryst with Talia al Ghul.

"Talia," she said, drawing Clark to the couch upon which they both sat, "was an old girlfriend of Bruce's."

"It seems he had a thing for brunettes," he said sardonically.

"If I'm not mistaken, so do you. Your ex-wife is a brunette, isn't she? And you also seem to have a thing for women whose name begins with a 'L.' Lois. Lana."

Diana laughed when he smirked down at her, his terse, "Point taken," Clark's concession.

"Anyway. Bruce broke up with her but she didn't take it well. From what he told me, she tried to trap him with a false pregnancy, and when that didn't work, she tried to seduce him into having an affair with her after we were married. That's when he told me everything. He found out she'd been lying to him, which was one of the reasons he broke up with her."

"And you were one of the other reasons, I assume."

"Yes. But that was months before I returned from Greece."

Diana didn't want to get into this with Clark. She wanted to keep the nasty, treacherous part of her life separate from the untouched newness of being with Clark again. But Diana was too smart to even try to convince herself that she could keep all from him. It would eventually have to be told. _But not all today. _

"The men who came into our home did not break in. There was no evidence of forced entry. Alfred swears he turned on the alarm system but it never went off when the intruders entered. Commissioner Gordon and Steve believe the killers somehow managed to turn the system off."

"How would they have done that? I'm sure Bruce wouldn't have had a run-of-the-mill system in his house."

No, the system was top-of-the line, a Bruce Wayne invention – intruder proof and uncrackable.

"They think the men had the security code."

"How?"

Diana sighed and leaned her head against the back of the supple leather couch. "I can't be certain, but I think it's possible that Talia managed to get the code when she and Bruce were dating. It's complicated," she added when Clark's eyes widened.

"I don't get it. What does Talia have to do with those killers? And why in the hell would you hire your husband's ex-girlfriend?"

"Maybe you should ask yourself why my dead husband's former girlfriend would seek to become my Executive Assistant."

And hadn't it been awfully convenient when Mrs. Grayson had been hospitalized when a car ran a Stop sign and slammed into her tiny Prius, leaving Diana in need of a temporary EA. Then along came Talia Head with a handy recommendation from one Lex Luthor. The business mogul who'd Bruce discovered had been stealing Wayne Industries' secrets.

"Yeah, that makes no sense either."

"It does if you know that Talia Head is really Talia al Ghul, daughter of a man wanted by the CIA, MI5, Interpol, and Mossad."

Clark slumped on the couch beside her. "That's who you have working for you? No wonder you don't trust her."

Of course she didn't trust Talia. She could barely stand the sight of her. If the woman didn't serve a purpose, Diana may have let her sister loose on her. An angry Donna Prince was a scary sight to behold, her temper as much a part of her as her infectious laughter.

Clark slid his hand across the cushion that separated them and found Diana's hand.

"No more heavy lifting. I don't think my head can take it. Besides," he said, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze, "we're supposed to be on a date. And talking about criminals isn't my idea of a fun time."

She couldn't agree more.

Clark bent down, opened a backpack he'd placed between his legs and pulled out a book. He handed it to her.

"It's my latest novel. I didn't know if you had a copy so I thought I'd bring you a signed copy."

No, she didn't have a copy, but Donna had already read it, telling Diana that it was a "must read."

"Thank you." Diana read the title aloud. "_In Search of Clark Kent: One Man's Journey of Faith, Family, and Forgiveness_." She smiled - her heart happy for him. "You went to see them. The Els, your parents, you finally met them."

"Thanks to you and Ma." He brought one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it with tender gratitude. "When you get a chance please read it. I think it will explain a lot, help you understand the man I've grown into."

She didn't doubt it would. But she could already see the man he'd become. A man not so different from the Clark she'd known and loved. But this Clark, the one with strong, confident eyes was an emotionally stable force he hadn't once been. She knew the feeling well.

Clasping the gift to her chest, Diana said, "I look forward to reading about your journey. Thank you."

The air fairly crackled around them, so deeply did Clark stare into her eyes.

Unable to hold his unwavering gaze, Diana glanced down. His eyes saw far too much, revealed even more. _His desire._

She hazarded a look back at him. Those sapphire orbs of his had not changed. And neither did the rapid pulse of her heart.

"I want to kiss you."

"I know."

"But it's too soon."

"Yes."

"So I'll do this instead."

He stood and reached down for her hand. She allowed him to pull her to her feet, already knowing what he'd accept in lieu of a kiss.

He hugged her . . . and she lifted her arms and hugged him back. And he felt too good. He was too good, far too good for a woman who could never be free to love him until she brought her family's killers to justice.

Diana stepped out of his drugging embrace.

Placing her gift on the conference table and making a mental note to grab it before she turned in for the night, Diana asked Clark, "Are you ready for our second date?"

He smiled his wicked, boyish smile, and then twined their fingers as he'd done at the Founder's Day Festival.

"I can't wait."

Neither could she.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	26. Chapter 25: All In The Family

**Chapter 25: All In The Family**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

In silence, Clark walked with Diana across the grounds of the Wayne Manor. He nodded and smiled at people when they stopped to make small talk with Diana. Each time Diana introduced Clark as a novelist and friend. It was no secret at Wayne Industries that Clark was writing a biography on Thomas Wayne, but the curious glances told Clark that Wayne employees speculated that their CEO and the biographer were more than business associates. For Diana's part, she was neither openly affectionate toward him; thereby, confirming their suspicions nor was she cold and distant and business-like either.

Clark couldn't help but smile at that. Diana was too strategically brilliant for her own good. She had to know rumors were spreading about the two of them, yet she invited him anyway. But her actions and interactions neither confirmed nor denied that they were dating. For all her staff knew, Clark was an invited guest just like any other Wayne employee. Or maybe she invited him to show him Thomas Wayne's home and to discuss the philanthropist with his wife, Martha, which, in truth, Diana had already arranged a meeting between her mother-in-law and Clark. It wasn't today, but no one would know that.

So Clark simply smiled and shook the hands of those who'd approached, following Diana's lead as she played hostess, greeting everyone and inquiring after their family. To his amazement, Diana knew quite a deal about her employees' personal lives. Who'd just gotten married. Who was divorced or widowed. Whose son or daughter had recently graduated from pre-school, high school, or college. She also knew their research projects and the status of each. The list was endless, Diana clearly an active CEO not just some figurehead who paid the bills and signed the checks.

And none of it was rehearsed or forced. She genuinely cared about those who worked for her. Besides that, she was quite knowledgeable about every aspect of Wayne Industries. Clark had known Diana was wise beyond her years, but he never imagined she was capable of all she'd achieved. _And she's only thirty-three. Impressive._

But what was more impressive, what touched Clark deeply, was that Diana had believed him not her trusted Head of Security. For an hour, Clark had brooded, fearing the ramifications of the incident with Talia Head, fearing that Steve Trevor would use it to poison Diana's mind against him. _Because she trusts me?_

Clark wasn't quite sure. Diana distrusted Talia. _For good reason._ _But does that mean she trusts me? What if the same thing happened with another woman, a woman Diana had no reason to distrust? Would her reaction have been the same? _Clark didn't know. He liked to think that it would have, but he just couldn't be sure. Maybe he should leave it alone. Maybe he should be happy with the outcome and stop looking for the thorns in the rose bush. Clearly, Diana was taking that approach. Why else would she invite him to her home?

"Have you changed your mind, Clark?"

"What? Ah, no."

"It's just you look so serious all of a sudden. If you would rather do something else . . . go somewhere less crowded, we can do that." Diana glanced around at all the people making good use of her home and grounds. "It can be a bit overwhelming. I'm used to it, but I suppose you're not. I should have thought of that before inviting you here."

"No, no. It's fine. I'm glad to be here. I'm glad you invited me. Lois and C.J. are with her mother and sister, Lucy, for the weekend." Clark paused, wondering how much of his divorce to get into with Diana. He wanted to tell her all. _But is it too soon? Is today the day for heavy lifting?_

"We're here."

Clark stopped beside Diana. How long had he been walking and not paying attention?

Diana moved forward, entering a huge cabana full of people. _People I know._

"Lead feet, Clark? Get your butt in here and out of the muggy July heat."

He knew that voice. _Ollie._

Clark moved, feeling every ounce the man with lead feet, weighed down by what he saw the closer he got to the spacious white and gold cabana.

What he saw were happy, smiling faces. And they were all staring at him, their smiles for him.

He stilled at the cool entrance, the cabana's air-conditioning going full throttle. But that's not what froze him, nope, that would be his grinning mother - Martha Kent - sitting beside Martha Wayne and Hippolyta. They made for an unexpected and shocking sight, sitting together at a table with the comfort and ease of old friends.

"Well, don't just stand there, son, with your mouth open. Come in and show Martha and Hippolyta that you weren't raised in a barn. You have better manners than to gape at three old women."

"Speak for yourself, Martha. I'm in my prime," Hippolyta said, with an expression and tone that were both haughty and playful. "But do stop staring at us like that, Clark. It's not at all polite. It makes a woman question whether something has fallen or is hanging or has come loose."

"All of which is quite possible once a woman turns fifty. But seeing as if I have four years before that will happen, I have no personal experience in the matter."

"Now look at what you've done, Martha," Hippolyta said, waving a finger at Mrs. Wayne. "You've gone and shocked the poor boy with your lies."

"Yes, I think my son is definitely in a state of shock." Clark's mother stood and came to him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she hugged him. "This is where you hug me back, Clark."

Clark realized, that indeed, he hadn't moved an inch.

"Oh, yes." He returned the hug, pleased to see his mother but so very confused. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You never told me you were friends with Hippolyta and Mrs. Wayne. I want to know everything you've been keeping from me, Ma. No more secrets."

She released him then patted his cheek, her smile a guilty one. "Yes, of course. We'll talk as soon as you bring Diana for a visit."

Clark glanced up. Diana was on the other side of the cabana, sitting at a table with Donna, Dinah, Mera, Kara, and Mari. They were all listening to something Donna was saying, then, in unison, they all turned their gazes to Victor Stone. The young man, who was sitting at a nearby table with the women's husbands, glowered at Donna.

She laughed.

He frowned.

She laughed even more, her eyes bright and blue with flirtation and mischief.

Without a word, Victor, a brilliant young man built like a football player, slid his chair back and stood. With economical movements, he parted the male-female sea of onlookers, faced a still snorting Donna and bent to her level. Nose to nose, the giggling Donna stopped, gulping down her laughter, her eyes wide with attraction and just a bit of uncertainty and fear.

"You like to play games, Donna. You like to needle a man, put him on the defensive with your mocking smiles and smart tongue." Kneeling in front of her, in a position that reminded Clark too much of the one he'd taken when he'd proposed to Diana, Victor lifted Donna's chin, and with all the confident charm that came with youth said, "If you want me, Donna Prince, just say it." He leaned in closer, their lips nearly touching. "Right now. Right here. In front of everyone. Just say the words and I'm yours."

A collective gasp echoed around the room. Clark's mother, never one for dramas, unabashedly wept during romantic movies or what Jonathan Kent called "chick flicks." She loved happily-ever-afters. Unfortunately, Clark had yet to give her his own happily-ever-after. But he was working on it. Maybe he should take a page out of young Victor Stone's book, put his lady on the spot and demand she come straight with him.

But that wasn't the way with Diana. She was being straight with him. Diana didn't play games, not the type of games Donna had obviously been playing with Victor. Nor would she take kindly to being embarrassed the way Victor was deliberately doing to Donna now, the way she'd just done to him.

No, where Donna hadn't quite reached her sister's level of maturity, unsure of how to approach a man she clearly liked, Diana's approach was decidedly more compelling, more subtle for its emotional depth and symbolism.

"Isn't that sweet?" his mother crooned, clasping her hands together and bringing them to her chest, eyes on the now kissing Donna and Victor.

Well, the man had his own style, and from the rapturous, devoted way Donna was looking at him, Victor Stone was the man of the hour . . . _and her heart_.

Clark's own eyes wandered to Diana who, to his surprise, was looking at him.

She smiled and waved then went back to her conversation with her friends.

Clark followed his mother to the table she shared with Hippolyta and Mrs. Wayne. He spoke then sat, and for the next half hour they talked, not about Thomas Wayne and the book or about any other safe topic. The women, whom he should've known, wanted to talk about him and Diana.

And, hell, it was actually a nice discussion, weird at first but ultimately enjoyable. Even Mrs. Wayne, who'd insisted he call her "Martha", supported him dating Diana. That had been a shocker, but she was serious, her love and concern for her daughter-in-law plain to see.

Then there was Hippolyta, a woman who'd never struck Clark as anything other than cold and heartless. When he'd visited her several months ago, he'd begun to see a different side of her, a softer, warmer side that he'd managed to miss. But that side was even more evident today. She laughed and joked and even made fun of herself. She was in her element, his mother apparently one of her dear friends.

And his mother. God, Clark hadn't seen her this radiant in years. Martha Kent practically glowed. She smiled, talked, and was undeniably happy. Clark now recalled other times he'd seen her like this. Times when he'd visited and she had her hair professionally done and nails shining with a pretty paint design. And she shone like the most exquisite of jewels.

He observed her now. _Fingernails polished. Hair perfectly coiffed. _He looked at Hippolyta and Mrs. Wayne. The same. They were all true classical beauties, their grace timeless. _And they are friends. Because of Diana. She did this. She brought them together. And now they want her to be happy. They think I'm the one who can make her happy. Will wonders never cease?_

Clark thought the same. In fact, he was confident they could make each other happy.

When he glanced around to find Diana, he found Arthur instead. Gesturing for him to join his table, Clark excused himself from the ladies and made his way to Arthur, Ollie, Victor, and John.

"Now that you're finished with the Moms, maybe you'd like to join the fellas."

Clark would like to take Arthur up on his offer, but he also wanted to spend time with Diana. Since entering the cabana, they hadn't spent one minute in each other's company.

"Where's Diana?" he asked, scanning the cabana but seeing her nowhere.

"With the wives and Donna and Kara," Ollie said, pulling out the seat beside him. "Sit, Clark, they won't be back for a while."

Clark sat. Ollie was to his right, Arthur to his left, John and Victor across from him.

"You still play poker?" Clark watched as Ollie shuffled a deck of cards.

"A little. I haven't played in a while, but I think I still remember the rules."

"Don't try to con a con, Kent. Ollie won't fall for it." Clark nodded to the blond Arthur, his hair as pale yellow as his wife's was as fire red. "And don't let him talk you into playing for money. He may not need it but he'll empty your pockets all the same."

"Good to know."

"You have a big mouth Arthur. I'm just trying to see what our boy Clark brings to the table."

"I play a bit."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. You see, Clark," Ollie said, handing the cards to John so he could cut, "John is a master of bluffs. I can't read his Marine face for shit. While Arthur thinks he can bluff but I've figured out all his tells. Then there is young Stone over there. He's nearly as good as John, but right now he's still thinking about Donna and his little display of machismo."

John slapped Victor on his back. "For menfolk everywhere, you represented well, sent the women off in a flurry of squeals and chatter."

"Donna drives me crazy."

"That's their nature, Vic. How many times do I have to tell you that? Women do that shit on purpose. They know it gets us all riled up until we turn all caveman on them. Tell the kid, Arthur."

"Keep me out of this, Ollie. Mera's not like that."

John and Ollie laughed. "Sure she is. She's just more subtle than Donna," John said.

"Yeah, well, no one would ever accuse Donna of being subtle. She's a spitfire. Best you remember that, Vic," Ollie said with a wink. "You might not be able to handle her when she finally gets you in the bedroom."

Victor Stone looked equal parts furious and embarrassed. _Poor kid._

"Are we going to play cards or what, Ollie, because, from what I've heard, Dinah makes you call her Sifu Black Canary in the bedroom, right before she ties you to the bed and pulls out her leather whip."

Okay, maybe not such a poor kid, Victor Stone had teeth. _And he's not afraid to use them._

All eyes turned to Ollie. The man simply shrugged and began to deal the cards. "A man does what he can to keep the flame burning. There's no shame in letting the little woman play dominatrix."

"I'll be damned if I let Mari tie me to the bed."

"Or use a whip on me." Arthur shuddered. "That's not happening."

"Pussies. Don't knock it until you try it."

Clark laughed.

"Don't laugh, Smallville," Ollie said. "The only reason you're getting a pass today is because things are too new between you and Diana. In six months, we'll be ripping into you as well. Don't think we won't. Diana hasn't been with anyone in three long years. You might not survive when you finally get her into your bed."

Clark was silent. Not about the sex part but the knowledge that everyone at the table assumed he and Diana were a fait accompli. They weren't, but it was humbly gratifying to know the men he'd once thought of as friends still viewed him as one of them.

It was touching, and the oddest date ever. He'd spent time with everyone except Diana. Then it hit him, like lightning skidding from the sky and crashing into him with shocking realization.

When they'd dated all those years ago, they began their courtship in secret. They told no one, not even their parents. It had been Clark's idea, and while she didn't agree, Diana had gone along. _That was our first mistake. No relationship should start in the dark. _And it had ended in the dark, the darkness that came from lies of omissions, lack of communication, and far too much pride.

A smile touched Clark's lips. By bringing him here today, Diana was attempting to right that long ago wrong. _She's telling me and everyone else that this time around secrets will not be tolerated. She wants me to know her family and friends are her world and if we are to continue I must accept them._

But it was more than that. _They must also accept my family and me. That's why Ma and Kara are here. _Despite the Wayne employees overflowing the grounds, this cabana only contained those whom Diana cared the most about, those who held her heart.

This day, this date that Clark now understood to be more about family and the future than romance, paled in comparison to any simple kiss he'd hoped Diana would grant him. The taste of her unspoken trust, silent hope was so damn sweet.

And when night fell and the fireworks blazed red, yellow, blue, and white in the sky, Clark held Diana in his arms.

Her eyes were cast upward to the light show dancing across the sky, while his eyes were firmly on Diana's face and her lovely smile that sparkled with contentment and joy.

No barriers.

No walls.

Holding Diana from behind, Clark hugged her, feeling whole and hopeful. Today had been a monumental step in their voyage to find common ground, and it had come with none of the heavy lifting he'd expected. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear. _I love you, _he said to himself. _I never stopped._

Turning in his arms, Diana held him tight, face against his shoulder, dark hair spilling down her back.

He wanted to roar, the temptation to crush her to him a near overwhelming thing. She had never initiated any of their hugs. She'd accepted them, with reticence at first, but with growing ease later. _Now she's hugging me. _

It took all of Clark's self-control to not take it further, to not lift her onto her toes and take her mouth with greedy need, to not push her beyond her comfort zone. _She said she wasn't ready. I must respect that._

Diana let him go, a nervous smile playing about her very kissable lips. "Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't have missed it."

They stood in silence, a little awkward but nothing more.

"Do you have plans for next Friday night?"

"Are you asking me out again, Mr. Kent?"

"Of course."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Dinner and dancing."

"I like to dance. Haven't done it in years."

"Then dinner and dancing it is then."

"Date three."

"Yup . . . and counting."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	27. Chapter 26: Conversations After Midnight

**Chapter 26: Conversations After Midnight**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

**Part 1**

Diana slipped under the cool sheets, turned on the nightstand lamp, and picked up Clark's book she'd placed on the nightstand before darting off to the shower. She sighed. It had been a long day, made even longer each time one of her well-meaning girlfriends decided to drop by her bedroom and have a chat about Clark.

That endless cycle had added an additional hour to what should have been a quick nightly routine. Ordinarily she would not have minded, but she really wanted to read Clark's book. If she didn't do it tonight, once the workweek began, she wouldn't have time. Besides, Diana was looking forward to learning about Clark's journey of self-discovery. And the least she could do was read his book prior to their next date.

Diana couldn't help but smile at that. She and Clark were actually dating. It felt somewhat surreal. He was so much like the Clark she'd fallen in love with but not quite. He'd grown into an amazing man – confident and successful, no longer in need of external propping up.

_He doesn't need me at all. _While that may have turned off many a woman, it was a turn-on for Diana. She didn't want a man who was on the market for a cheerleader, mother, or fling. _He doesn't need me but he wants me. _For Diana, that made the world of difference. _Equals._ Yes, that's what she required, a partner who could give as well as take.

And Diana so hoped the man she saw in Clark Kent was indeed the man who could fulfill her deepest, most guarded heart's desire. Perhaps she would be closer to the truth, closer to the answers she sought after she'd read his book.

Opening the hardback book, Diana noticed the hand written inscription inside. It read: _A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step. Take the first step in faith, Diana. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step. Trust me. Trust yourself._

A stray tear dropped, and Diana wiped it away before it fell on the book. She didn't expect to have these feelings for Clark again, didn't think she was capable of caring for a man other than Bruce, didn't think she would again desire the touch of a man. But she did. God help her, she did.

Yet Diana wasn't naïve enough to confuse lust and desire with love. Love was messy, complicated, and painful. She'd done love before. _Twice. _She didn't know if she dared try a third time, even with Clark.

_Then why are you dating him?_

_Because I'm selfish and am not ready to not have him in my life again._

_That's not selfishness, Diana, that's something you refuse to name._

_What do you know of it?_

_I know you. I am you. We share the same heart. You may fool others, but you can't fool me._

_Why do you torment me? Why won't you just be quiet? _

_You torment yourself, with your delusions and half-truths. You have the power to silence me._

_I do?_

_Yes._

_How?_

_Listen to your heart, Diana; just listen to your heart._

Diana ran a thumb over the engraved dedication to Clark's birth and adoptive parents. She wasn't surprised he'd dedicated his book to the Kents and the Els. Just as Diana made to turn the page and settle in for a night of reading, a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Squelching a groan, she said, "Come in."

The door opened and a graying brown head peeked in. "If it's too late we can talk tomorrow."

Diana didn't have to look at the clock on her nightstand to know it was after midnight. Martha knew it as well. The time, however, really wasn't the point. Her mother-in-law obviously had something on her mind she felt couldn't wait until morning.

"It's fine, Mom, come in and have a seat."

Martha entered Diana's room, closed the door, then sat on the edge of the bed. Diana scooted over to give her more room. She was dressed in a pretty, pale pink robe that matched the nightgown underneath. Face clear of makeup and hair slightly damp from a shower, Martha Wayne was all innocently sweet beauty. She was a beauty of course but far from innocent. No way could Martha have lived through all she had and maintained any semblance of naïve innocence. Although, Diana was pretty sure Martha Wayne only ever looked the part of the benign girl-next-door. The woman had a spine of steel.

"I love when you call me that. I don't think I've ever told you, but I do."

No, she hadn't, but Diana knew. She didn't always call Martha "Mom." Diana made sure to never do it when they were at Wayne Industries or at any business event. Because of this, she didn't do it nearly as often as she should. But with Martha Kent at the manor all weekend, it just made sense. Hippolyta would always be "Mother," and she had no problem with her daughter calling Martha "Mom."

"Anyway," Martha said, noticing the book on Diana's lap, "I won't keep you long. I just want you to know that after you finish with whatever scheme you have for those bastards who took Bruce and Briana from us, I plan on moving to L.A."

A part of Diana wasn't surprised, knew Martha would eventually agree to Hippolyta's suggestion to leave Wayne Manor and Gotham and start over in Los Angeles. Hippolyta and Donna were, after all, there, and they both attended monthly Wayne Industries board meetings so Martha could visit each time they did, if she liked. But it still hurt. _Change always does._

"Do you have nothing to say, dear?"

It was then Diana realized she'd been mutely staring at Martha, the only living link to a past that tormented her, blinding Diana to the good and loving memories that were her husband and baby. _Like my wedding to Bruce. Or when I first felt Briana move._

"I guess I'm a bit shocked."

Martha patted her leg. "I know we don't talk about what will come next but you had to know we couldn't continue to live here."

Yes, she knew that but . . .

"And you've only remained here because of me." Martha slid up the bed and closer to Diana. "That was the only time Hippolyta and I argued. After the attack, she wanted you out of this house. But you stayed . . . because of me."

Of course Diana had stayed. Wayne Manor was all Martha had left of Thomas and Bruce. She hadn't been ready to leave her home, and Diana was unwilling to leave Martha by herself. So, yes, she'd stayed. It hadn't been easy. To say otherwise would be a lie. But Martha had needed her, and Diana needed to be needed.

"I would do anything for you, Mom, you must know that. I'll give you whatever you want. I want you to be happy, and if you're no longer happy living here, I'll help you pack and we can decide what to do with the manor."

"Happiness had nothing to do with it, Diana. The manor was a crutch. I should have let go a long time ago. I should have freed us both, but I was weak and so very selfish. For that" –Martha stroked Diana's cheek— "I am so very sorry, my dear daughter."

For several seconds, they didn't speak, didn't move, and didn't look beyond each other's sad, understanding eyes.

"I wasn't ready either." Yet she would've left. If it hadn't been for Martha, Diana would've never returned to the manor. But what good would it do to add to Martha's guilt? Her husband and son were gone. If not Diana, whom else could Martha rely on? Hippolyta may have loved Martha, but she lived in California and had a business to manage. No, there had been no one but Diana. And no way in hell would she have left Bruce's mother to deal with his death by herself. That wasn't even an option.

Martha smiled - an indulgent one that told Diana she appreciated her effort but knew the truth.

"It's time we both move on, me to California and you with Clark Kent."

Diana opened her mouth, wanting to refute the assumption that she and Clark were more to each other than they actually were. But the refutation died before it had been given a proper birth. What was she to say? That she didn't find him attractive? She did. That he wasn't a man she could trust? He was. That she hadn't dreamed of a future with him since the first time he'd hugged her in his hotel room? She had. What was there to say that wouldn't be a complete and utter lie?

"I know you're afraid. I'm afraid, too. I've lived most of my adult life in this city and in this home. I've traveled the world-over, but I always returned to Gotham, to Wayne Manor. I like to now think I'm capable of being more, of doing more. A great man once said, 'Do not wait until the conditions are perfect to begin. Beginning makes the conditions perfect.'"

And for the second time that night, a tear fell. This time, however, Diana didn't wipe it away. Instead, she let it fall, a silent truth that landed between Diana's and Martha's joined hands.

"Bruce said that to me when he proposed. He was uncharacteristically nervous."

Martha gave a mournful smile. "That was his father's favorite saying. Thomas Wayne was the greatest man I've ever known."

Martha kissed Diana's cheek before standing. "I'll let you get back to your reading, dear. Think about what I've said."

"I will. Good night."

"Good night, sweetie. Enjoy your book."

Martha left, softly closing the door behind her.

Diana opened Clark's book to the Prologue and began to read.

_There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth . . . not going all the way, and not starting. This is my story, my journey, my search for self. But let me share a hard-earned lesson with you – a lesson that took me far too long to learn. To conquer oneself is a greater victory than to conquer thousands in a battle. Peace comes from within. . . ._

**Part 2**

**Metropolis  
**

Talia took the private elevator up to the office she knew so well. Tonight wasn't their usually scheduled meeting time, but after today, she needed what only Lex Luthor could give her.

Stepping into his office without knocking, Talia found the man himself sitting behind his imposing desk. One black eyebrow lifted at her brazen entrance. She didn't care. Lex knew her well enough to know she knocked for no one. It was bad enough she'd been reduced, these last few months, to answering calls and getting coffee for the bitch of Wayne Industries.

With a pointed look, Lex glanced at his gold Rolex then back at Talia. "It's after midnight, my sexy little spy. What are you doing here?"

He stood and came from around his desk as she approached - a sensually arrogant smirk on his wicked face.

"I needed to see you tonight."

He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up against him. "Why? We've talked about your unannounced visits. Your father could've been here, and the last thing I need is for him to know I'm fucking his precious daughter."

The thought of what Ra's al Ghul would do to Lex if he'd ever found out sent a little thrill through Talia.

She kissed his neck, licking and biting just above his silk shirt.

"I called him before I came. I knew he wasn't here."

"Smart girl. Now tell me why you're here."

Talia loosened his steel metal gray tie then began unbuttoning his white shirt. Slipping one hand inside, she enjoyed the play of muscles under her exploring fingers. Lex may not have the rippling appeal of Clark Kent but the man did have a body worth admiring. Ripping both the tie and shirt off, Talia laved first one nipple then the other.

With a tug that was both pleasure and pain, Lex grabbed her hair and tugged her up to him, his mouth hungry and hard when it took hers.

This was what she liked about Lex Luthor. The man worked and played hard, gave no quarter not even during sex. The consummate schemer, Lex was the best bed partner for a woman like Talia. He was also dangerous as hell. But she liked to play with fire, liked to watch it burn, liked to fan the flames.

"Diana has a boy toy. His name's Clark Kent. Have you heard of him?"

"Yes, the writer. He used to be a reporter for that rag _The Dailey Planet_."

Lex smiled all the time, most of them false. But the smile he wore now was one of pure scheming joy. "Find out all you can about him. If he's her new weakness then I plan to exploit it. She's making waves. That little speech of hers brought all kinds of sniveling weaklings turned snitches out of the woodwork. They think her their messiah. Her and that damn Justice League."

Talia undid his buckle then the button that held up his pants. Down they went, revealing legs as pale and hairless as his chest and head. The silk boxers came next.

Lex said nothing, just stared at her with both arousal and contemplation. He was already calculating how he would use this new bit of information. The man was forever calculating.

So was she. And right now Talia was trying to figure out how she could get Lex Luthor to do something for her. But first . . .

Talia dropped to her knees.

She had to do something for him. . . .

* * *

Zatanna smiled at her good fortune then wanted to gag. But she didn't. Instead, she continued to take pictures of Talia al Ghul giving Lex Luthor one hell of a blowjob.

"So, ah, does this mean I'm one of the League now?"

Zatanna rolled her eyes at the annoying pilot behind her. His penthouse was perfect. It was the only building close enough to Lexcorp and Lex's office to get a decent shot. Even with her high-powered camera, any farther away the pics would've been grainy and out of focus. But here, well, here was ideal. But it also came with an annoying price.

Zatanna turned to the tall man. "Thank you for the use of your home Mr. Jordan."

"Please, call me Hal. And I can call you. . .?"

"Ms. Zatara."

He shoved his hands in his jean pockets, hunching over a bit as he not-so-discreetly looked down her black blouse. _What a jerk. But a helpful jerk. Can't forget he let a stranger into his home._

"Zatanna. You may call me Zatanna, if you wish."

"Unusual name."

"So I've heard my entire life."

"She turned back to the window and her camera, clicking a few more times, catching the disgusting duo on the desk this time, Talia's legs wrapped around Luthor's bare, pumping ass.

The gag reflex returned.

Jordan sat down next to her, clueless to what was happening one building over.

"So, about that Justice League business?"

Zatanna dug into her back pocket and pulled out a plain white business card that read simply: Justice League. Under the black letters was a cell number.

"In the morning, call the number. Ask for Steve Trevor."

She handed the card over and Jordan took it with the enthusiasm of a child receiving a Christmas gift.

"That's it, huh? Just a phone call and I'm in?"

_Not hardly._

"Just call."

"I will."

Hal Jordan was silent for all of two minutes, then he asked what many potential recruits did. Most of the men and some of the women.

"When will I get to meet Diana Wayne?"

_It never fails. I could set my watch by it._

"She's smokin' hot."

_Yup, they say that, too._

**Part 3**

**Five Hours Later**

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

With repressed tears, a mind overflowing with understanding, and a heart full of an emotion she dared not name, dared not yet claim, Diana read the final words of Clark's book. _A poem. I should have known._

_**A Spiritual Journey**_

_Across from the mountains,  
A little house sits in the tree's,  
I'm lost in tranquility,  
As my soul tries to breathe._

White clouds moving slowly,  
The breeze a calm still,  
I'm caught in the moment,  
As my heart starts to heal.

A piece of me,  
In the startling blue sky,  
As I spread my wings,  
My soul starts to fly.

I fly to unknown places,  
Where pain and hurt once dwelled,  
As the memories flow pass me,  
My eyes start to swell.

Tear drops drip slowly,  
Down my cheeks,  
The wind wipes them dry,  
And gives me some peace.

Soaring so free,  
Over water and land,  
My Spirit Guide gently,  
Takes me by my hand.

He shows me what was,  
And what's meant to be,  
And why my life,  
Is so important it seems.

A long soar,  
Like the eagle high,  
I bow my head,  
And I start to cry.

Back on the land,  
Across from the tree's,  
I began to realize,  
What healing means.

It mean's not to forget,  
Let the past flow,  
Of all the horrors,  
One soul had to go.

To take the strengths,  
And apply them to life,  
Is a valuable lesson,  
I've learnt this flight.

Alone in the sunset,  
I watch it go down,  
When I finally realize,  
What peace I have found.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	28. Chapter 27: Just Us

**Chapter 27: Just Us**

**Metropolis, Fortress of Solitude Jazz Club**

Clark surveyed the room one last time. His eyes took in the small stage to his right. Microphone with stand and a piano were already in place. The band would bring the rest of their equipment when they arrived, which –Clark glanced down at his watch— should be in less than fifteen minutes. The lighting was set low to what Clark hoped was a romantic level. Not too dim where he and Diana would not be able to see each other and their food but not too bright where Diana would mistake tonight for anything other than what it was. _A romantic interlude just for two. _

That was Clark's goal. So far, their previous dates, while wonderful, involved too many other people and not nearly enough time with just the two of them. He was starving for some alone time with Diana. Tonight he would have it. Tonight would be all about them. _And a bit of heavy lifting._

Tonight's topic was inevitable and all too necessary. He'd avoided talking about his marriage and divorce, as well as what happened to C.J. Clark wanted Diana to meet his son, but she first needed to understand C.J. It wouldn't be fair to his son or Diana to bring them together without first informing Diana that his son wasn't like other children his age, that C.J. would never be like other children.

While Clark mulled over the best way to approach the conversation, he heard the jazz band begin to file in. They were an eclectic group with experience than ranged from ten years to thirty. Three generations of Louisiana Creoles who'd brought their unique bayou sound north.

Years back when he used to be a reporter for _The Daily Planet_, Clark was given an assignment to interview the up-and-coming band. He liked their music so much and the food at the club where they'd been playing, he returned with his mother. Martha and the eldest member of the _Ladies of Louisiana _band, Clea Bujeau, talked and within no time had become fast friends. So when Clark had decided to open up a jazz club with his friend, Jimmy Olsen, his mother had suggested speaking with the Bujeau family about the entertainment.

Clark turned and waved to the six beautifully talented women. They nodded and smiled, too focused on preparing their set to do more than a cordial greeting. He would make sure to introduce them all to Diana. When Clea learned they'd be playing for an audience of two, she'd sat Clark down and made him tell her all about Diana. Then she'd smiled and patted his cheek the way his mother always did when he pleased her and said, "Ah, we will make lovely music for your lady. Don't you worry."

The music was the last thing Clark knew he had to worry about. The Bujeau women were highly sought-after because they loved what they did and it showed in every cord they struck and note they sang. Lovely didn't begin to describe the harmonic symphony they produced when they played with a single-minded purpose to bring pleasure to their listeners.

No, Clark's concern was that he'd had three years to come to terms with the idea of being with Diana again; whereas, Diana had only two months. That not so insignificant difference in time was a hurdle neither one of them had yet to scale. And it was driving him crazy. Everything in him wanted to go fast, wanted to move things along at a pace that matched his fervor and desire for her. But all that Diana had said and done was at a slow, measured gate, reflecting her cautious take on a relationship with Clark.

And she had every right to be cautious, to take things slow with him. It wasn't her fault that he'd been dreaming of her for three long years, longer if he were being totally honest with himself. But she hadn't been thinking of him. She'd been learning to cope with the deaths of her husband and child. He may have gone through a divorce but that couldn't begin to compare to Diana's emotional upheaval.

_But she's beginning to loosen up, to let me in. She wouldn't do all of that if she only intended to close herself off again, to shut me out of her life once I've completed the Thomas Wayne biography._

Clark was sure that wasn't Diana's intention. But they did need to talk about her intentions and what she envisioned for them as a couple.

Clark watched as a linebacker of a man in a Wayne Industries security uniform entered his club. He wore sunglasses which he swiftly removed after he crossed the threshold. He nodded to Clark as if he knew him then said, "I'll need to check the facility, Mr. Kent. Won't be long."

Then, without another word, the bulging Mexican whose name Clark couldn't recall, swept past him. Fifteen minutes later, apparently satisfied, the bodyguard held the front door open and Diana came in.

And as Clark added the whole business of Diana's intense security to the list of things they really needed to discuss, his jaw dropped when he saw her. She was a vision in an ivory cocktail dress. The one-shoulder, asymmetrical hemline and train fell to her knees, a silver beaded embellishment caught at her side and the entire dress was sleeveless silhouetted with a gauzy sheath.

She wore her hair up in a twisting design with swept bangs that curved above one perfectly arched eyebrow. And the high-heeled ivory sandals with straps she walked in on made her legs even sexier, which didn't bode well for Clark's self-control.

Every ounce of his male body screamed at him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, to kiss her until she recalled how good they used to be together, to kiss her until she was as insane with wanting him as he was with wanting her.

"Thank you, Manny."

That's right; the man's name was Manuel Alonso.

"I'll be right out front." The bodyguard nodded curtly to Clark again. "Enjoy your evening, Dr. Wayne. Mr. Kent."

The door closed behind the large man. Not understanding but thinking it important, Clark went to the door and locked it. The Bentley Alfred normally drove was parked in front of the building but Manny and another man were inside instead of Diana's elderly butler. Yeah, they definitely needed to talk about why a business woman required so many bodyguards.

"You clean up nice, Mr. Kent," Diana said when Clark turned back to her, her eyes and mouth smiling at him.

She had no idea. Clark avoided suits as much as possible, and since he was an independent writer and no longer a reporter, he rarely had a need to wear one. But considering their first date was at a park and their second a barbeque, Clark figured the least he could do was show Diana he owned more than jeans, shorts, and khakis.

So, he'd sprung for a new suit instead of throwing on an old one from his closet. He liked the look and feel of it and the woman in the men's department really knew her stuff, matching shirts and ties and convincing him to purchase more than the one. He did, helping the saleswoman earn a nice commission off him but also knowing he'd likely need a few quality suits if he intended to keep dating Diana. There were plenty of nice places he wanted to take her, places that required more formal wear.

"You look good in dark gray. It brings out the blue in your eyes." She closed the short distance between them and reached up to the black curl that refused to be tamed. Despite his hair cut, one curl still fell to the middle of his forehead. Diana wiped it back with a gentle finger, then smiled when it returned to the same spot once she'd lowered her hand.

And damn if she didn't smell good – of amber and rose petals. The heady aroma curled about his senses, saturating his pores with their dewy flavor and sending his desire into overdrive.

She was so close. So very close.

"I loved your book." Diana raised those long fingers of hers again and placed them on his shoulders. "You really have changed, haven't you?" Her eyes looked up into his, the question more of an answer to self than one truly meant for him to answer.

But he answered anyway.

"In many respects, I have. I'm now the man I always wanted to be. That other Clark Kent was an incomplete version, an eagle who thought he was a chicken. I didn't realize I possessed powerful wings. Wings that didn't keep me grounded like a flightless bird but wings that allowed me to soar, to reach heights I'd never imagined. Such an understanding brought a richness and contentment to my life that I'd never known. I saw myself differently; I felt reborn."

Diana dropped her hands from his shoulders, a bit of the light from her gaze dimming.

What had he said wrong?

"I can see that. You're so . . . so . . . much more," she finished on a somber note. "I don't want to ruin all that you've gained, all the peace you've worked so hard to obtain."

How could she do that? Why would being with her bring anything but joy into his life?

She turned away from him, offering no explanation for her strange change in mood, and then proceeded to take in his jazz club.

Clark took her to the stage and introduced Diana to the band, then gave her the grand tour of the one place that always brought him peace.

"This club is for people like me who enjoy a night out without the normal hustle and bustle of a large restaurant or bar and grill. It's small and intimate, only accommodating seventy people. The food is simple but tasty, and the music will soothe the soul. It's my fortress of solitude when the world seems crazy and I want to be around other people who feel the same as I do."

Clark pulled out a chair for Diana, and she sat. Trying to regain the warmth and closeness he'd felt when Diana first entered; Clark claimed the seat beside her instead of the one across from Diana. After his talk about eagles and chickens, she'd erected one of her walls. Not a big one, but definitely a noticeable roadblock.

Clark was having none of it.

"Tell me what's wrong. Why have you shut down on me?"

He knew she wouldn't play games with him and pretend she didn't know to what he was referring. And she didn't.

"My life isn't at all peaceful, Clark."

She took in the club again, her eyes moving from the intimate tables for two to the booths for four or six to the hanging photographs of the Metropolis landscape, taken by Jimmy, to the plaque by the front door dedicating the club to Jonathan Kent, a true lover of old school jazz music.

"You have this wonderful place here and a son. Right now, my life doesn't fit with the life you've built for yourself."

He had no idea what she was talking about, but assumed it probably had something to do with those hulking guards who shadowed her every movement. He didn't care. Clark wouldn't allow Diana to back away from him.

"You want peace, but I don't have it to give you."

He held her hand, soft and smooth.

"Tomorrow we'll talk about whatever it is that makes you think you cannot fit into my life." He ran a thumb over the back of her hand. "But tell me this, Diana; do you want to be a part of my life?"

She stared at their joined hands for several long seconds before stubbornly raising her chin and nodding.

The heart Clark hadn't realized had stopped beating picked up the rhythm once more. In fact, it quickened with eagerness and satisfaction.

"Good. As long as we have that, we can work on the rest. Because," he slid his chair closer to her, the Bujeau women striking their first soft cords in the background, "I have no intention of letting you go. Not ever again. You know what we're doing is more than dating, right? It's more than a series of dates that lead to hot, sweaty sex." He drew even nearer, uncaring they had an audience, and whispered, "Although you have no idea how much I really want the hot, sweaty sex I keep fantasizing about."

She blushed but didn't object or shy away. Clark decided to take that as a very good sign.

"It's about the long game, Diana. It's about you and me fixing what we screwed up all those years ago. It's about forever and happily-ever-after. It's about," —his lips brushed hers— "making you my wife - Mrs. Diana Prince-Kent."

The last was spoken against her mouth. Then he pressed his lips to hers again, soft and slow enough to give her time to pull back, to stop what he had every intention of doing.

She didn't move.

He did.

Clark wrapped his arms around Diana's waist and pulled her to him, his lips seeking hers at the same time.

At first he only nibbled, tasting her glossy lips with nips and sucks, enjoying their plump softness. Then he began licking, languidly gliding his tongue from one side of her mouth to the other, dipping in just a bit but not fully. He was relishing this first kiss far too much to rush it.

So he didn't.

Running his hands up her back, he got even closer, Diana's breasts pressing deliciously against his chest.

The soothing, swaying music flowed around them, heightening the sensation even more. He could kiss her like this forever, slow, soft, and oh so reverently.

But when Diana wrapped her arms about his neck, opened her mouth to him and let him slide his tongue inside, Clark nearly erupted like those fireworks he'd watched with Diana on the fourth.

He swept inside, exploring and sucking and taking the kiss up the heat meter.

She gave the most erotic of whimpers, her own tongue just as voracious, her lips just as demanding, her nails digging in to shoulders with a passion he'd never quite forgotten.

And he wanted more, so much more. The club and the band had faded, taking up residence in the part of Clark's brain reserved for propriety and restraint, which neither of them was showing at the moment.

No, their lips and tongues were far too engaged to worry about the six women serenading them or the staff in the kitchen waiting to serve them.

Clark's hands went to Diana's face, grasped, then tilted his head and devoured her mouth, getting as deep and as close as he could without setting off the sprinklers with their fire, which they would surely do if this continued.

But it had been so long. _Too long. _He was finding it difficult to stop, to release Diana and officially begin their date. And he probably would have if she weren't so unbelievably responsive. When she'd first mentioned the book and touched his shoulders, Clark had gotten the distinct impression that Diana had been about to kiss him. But he'd started talking about chickens, eagles, and peace and she'd withdrawn.

Now, hell, if Clark had ever questioned whether Diana was still attracted to him, her hungry kisses obliterated all doubt.

A throat cleared behind him. Once. Twice. A third time.

Reluctantly, Clark disengaged from the fiery kiss, glad he didn't have to rise and that there was a long, white table cloth that hid the signs of his arousal. Turning, he faced the embarrassed gaze of his waiter. Greg, a college kid in his second year, was all red faced and wide eyes. And while he was clearly going for his best professional stance, his eyes kept sliding to Diana, manly appreciation Clark knew too well.

"I . . . uh . . . I thought I would serve the first course now, Mr. Kent. You said you wanted the salads and drinks out by seven. It's a few minutes after that now."

Clark shifted his chair back where it belonged, ignoring the way his dress pants seemed to caress his erection in the most delightful and inappropriate way.

"Thanks, Greg. Yes, you can begin serving us now."

Greg nodded and took his leave.

And when Clark refocused on Diana, it was to find her as red-faced and embarrassed as young Greg. That made him beam. A PDA had gotten to the unflappable CEO of Wayne Industries, how utterly arousing and ego boosting. What was he to do with her? His thoughts were endless and quite naughty.

As they ate their steaks and sipped wine, Clark decided to take the plunge.

"I already told you a bit about my marriage to Lois."

"We're back to the heavy lifting." Diana placed her fork and knife on the side of her plate. "I suppose it's time for us to continue."

"I just thought you should know a little about my marriage and son. That doesn't mean I want you to feel obligated to tell me about your marriage to Bruce. It's not one of those quid pro quo deals."

Besides, he really didn't need to hear how happy Bruce had made her. It was clear that he had. What else was there for Clark to know?

"Not to get into all the gory details, but Lois and I never quite clicked the way we should have. I admit most was my fault. We had a great business relationship and we were attracted to each other. With our love of writing, I thought that would be enough to build and sustain a life together."

"It wasn't?"

Diana lifted the wine glass to her mouth and took a delicate sip of the merlot. She swallowed, the long, tanned line of her neck tempting and teasing a tongue that wanted to come out and play.

"It could have been; it should have been."

"Then why wasn't it?"

This was the sticky part, how to tell Diana the truth without her feeling responsible for the dissolution of his marriage. There was no easy way to say it other than to just come out with it.

"I held back a good deal of my heart from her."

The glass she'd been about to drink from again stilled, her eyes locking on his with reserved alarm.

She placed the glass on the table, her wary eyes never leaving his.

"Please don't tell me. Please don't say—"

"I was still in love with you, Diana. I thought I wasn't. I thought I was completely over you. But it had all been a lie, a lie that made it easier for me to go on without you in my life. I swallowed that lie and gave the same pill to Lois, telling her I loved only her."

Diana paled, the color seeming to drain from her entire body. Her shoulders slumped and she dropped her hands into her face murmuring, "No, no, no."

He had to tell all, so he pushed down the stab of guilt for putting her through this.

"When she realized, we began to argue. A lot. The first time Bruce offered me the biography job, as my agent, he sent the request to Lois. She turned it down without ever telling me."

Removing her head from her hands, Diana looked up.

"When I found out, I was furious with her. That hadn't been the first time she'd made a business decision without consulting me. She always thought she knew what was best for my career. Most of the time I agreed with her, but not always."

"Writing a biography about the respected Thomas Wayne would not have been an unwise career move for you, nor was it why she turned Bruce down. What wife would want her husband around his ex-fiancée and lover, particularly one he still has feelings for?" Diana picked up the wine glass and drowned the remaining contents. "On occasion I would come into contact with one of Bruce's former lovers. I didn't like it one bit, but at least I knew he felt nothing for them, that his love and affections were all for me."

It was amazing how female solidarity worked. Diana had never met Lois and had already taken her side.

She was right, of course. Both women were.

"Anyway, one night we were driving and she started in on me. We argued." He paused, gathering his nerve for the last part. "We got into an accident. It was dark and raining and the car hydroplaned. The side of the car hit a pole. C.J. was in the car."

"Oh my god."

"He was eighteen months. His car seat was directly behind me which was the side where I'd struck the pole. The car was totaled and we were all medevac'd to Metropolis General Hospital."

Standing, Diana walked away from the table. Two minutes later, the sound of music stopped. Two more minutes later, Diana and Clark were alone in the front part of the club.

When she returned, Diana pulled him to his feet and steered him towards a private area of the club for VIPs. Once there, they sat together on the long couch. Diana loosened his tie and ran a soothing hand through his hair.

Then she kissed his lips, not with passion as she'd done earlier, but with a woman's tender understanding for a man who'd inadvertently harmed his only child. _My son. My C.J._

Taking one fortifying breath, he plowed on. "C.J. suffered a traumatic brain injury which resulted in him having epilepsy. Even with medication, he has no seizure control. His doctor thinks it may not be a lifelong syndrome - that it could possibly be confined to only C.J.'s childhood."

"What do you think?" she asked, her body reassuringly close.

"I think C.J. has an overly optimistic doctor. But, of course, I hope she's correct."

Diana laid her head on Clark's shoulder, saying nothing.

Sometimes words weren't required. Her silent support was enough. Diana hadn't asked if he'd blamed himself. Nor had she inquired as to Lois' feelings on the matter. Neither did she bombard him with endless medical questions or offer to refer Clark to a specialist for his son.

No, Diana simply reclined against him, not trying to own or control or solve his issue. And it was firmly a Clark issue. Just as what had happened to her family was firmly a Diana issue. She was still grappling with hers, and so was Clark.

He'd long since ceased blaming himself for the accident; although, he knew Lois still did. He no longer resented her for starting an argument while he was driving, distracting him with her accusations and endless yelling.

The rain was heavy and the night formidable, the horrible accident could've played out exactly as it did whether Lois and Clark had been arguing or not. No one can say for sure. Perhaps the Fates but they'd never taken Clark into their confidences. But C.J. was a survivor and so was his father.

Clark looked down at the dark-haired beauty using him as a pillow and knew her to be a survivor as well.

"You didn't lose him."

"I know; and I'm grateful."

But she had lost her child. Clark wished he could remove that indelible stain from her heart. But that death, the tiny flicker of life gone too soon was, in part, responsible for the woman Diana was today, a woman of strong conviction with a mission to bring peace to the world in her own corporate way.

_And she thinks she can offer me no peace. What a foolishly wonderful woman._

He hugged her, wishing they could stay this way for the rest of the night. It was getting late and they still had yet to dance.

"Are you still up for dancing and dessert?"

She didn't stir, just said, "I dismissed your band and I'm still full from dinner. I was hoping we could stay like this for a while." She turned a bit in his arms, put her back to his chest, and slipped out of her sexy sandals.

"So, no dancing?"

Diana snuggled deeper into him.

"Maybe next time. Right now I just want you to hold me and tell me we aren't both crazy for trying this again."

He kissed the top of her head.

"We aren't crazy, honey. I promise."

"If we were both crazy, would we even know it?"

"Probably not."

"I thought you would say that."

She twisted just enough to raise her mouth to his. Clark took the offering and kissed her.

She ran one hand through his hair and pulled him closer. "If we are crazy, I hope to never find out."

He laughed then kissed her again.

"I want you to meet my son."

"Are you sure? Perhaps it's too soon."

"It's not too soon and I'm positive." He kissed her temple.

She sighed then gave him a thoughtful look. "We're really doing this, aren't we?"

He grinned down at her. "Yup."

"Then you better get started telling me all about Mr. Clark Kent Jr., because I have zero experience with little boys, unless you count a pouty Oliver Queen when Dinah shuts him down in the bedroom.

Clark hugged her tighter. "Okay, well, he'll be six on December eighteenth and he loves . . .

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	29. Chapter 28: The Road to Metropolis

**Chapter 28: The Road to Metropolis**

Diana watched the rugged Gotham landscape with its tall, menacing buildings, its narrow alleys and roadways, and its tough-minded and quick-tongued citizens pass her by. So much of Gotham was dark, even during the safer light of day. Yet darkness did not breed ugliness and villainy, it only made it easier for vile creatures to hide and lurk within. No, criminals of all kinds could also be found in the light. Some, in fact, relied on the light to mask their evil deeds, the light a skilled magician's illusion and an unwitting accomplice. _Magicians like Luthor and Talia._

The unbidden image of Talia and Luthor came to her mind. Their bodies entwined on his desk, Talia on her knees, Luthor's face contorted in depraved ecstasy as he came. The images jumbled together in Diana's mind, a collage of sexual pleasure made deviant because of the people involved.

And she'd felt like a voyeur when Zatanna had laid the pictures out, one-by-one, on the conference table the following afternoon. Her entire board was there, shocked at the pictures but not at all surprised. They'd all known Talia and Luthor were working together, they just didn't realize how intimately their connection had run.

"They're disgusting, but the pictures prove nothing other than Zatanna's talent with a camera."

Hippolyta had been right.

"Maybe we're all thinking of the pictures in the wrong way. They aren't a smoking gun or a confession, true, but there's value in them. It's all in how we choose to use them."

Everyone had turned his or her focus on Arthur.

"Because we know Talia's true identity," Arthur continued, "we know who her father is. We assumed, probably correctly, that Luthor does as well, and has aligned himself with Ra's al Ghul. But we've never had any real proof of the connection other than Talia, and she has no criminal record."

Which—Diana knew—did not mean she wasn't a criminal, only that she had yet to be implicated and arrested for any crime.

"As a proud father of a little girl," he said, beaming at his wife, referring to his and Mera's two-year daughter, Atlanna, "the thought of a business partner of mine doing the things Luthor is doing to Talia in those pictures would make me see red."

Ollie and John were the first ones to sober to the idea, especially John who had a seven-year old daughter of his own - Anansi.

"So you think Ghul may not know Luthor is bangin' Talia?" Ollie had said. "That makes a lot of sense, actually. Even the worst criminals don't relish the idea of one of their compatriots playing around in their sandbox."

"And there is no more personal sandbox than a father's daughter," John had added.

They had all turned to Diana then. But it was Arthur who'd asked, "How would you like for us to proceed?"

She had no good answer, then or now. So she'd said simply, "Do nothing for now. I need time to consider our options and the likely consequences of each one. By our next board meeting, I'll have a plan to bring before you."

There were nods all around.

She'd given herself a month to devise a plan. A divide and conquer plan that would also include catching the two who had invaded her home and killed her family. Diana wanted none of them to go free. Her net would catch them all. One way or another, they would all belong to her.

"A penny for your thoughts."

Diana smiled, then turned away from the window and the speeding cars and to the man across from her. _Clark. _The smile grew. She couldn't help it, and lord knows Diana had tried. But keeping Clark out of her heart, once he'd reentered her life, had been nigh on impossible.

The assault on the fortified castle her heart had been locked within was an unexpected war of honesty, gentle persuasion, patience, and humility. The moat had been the first obstacle he'd scaled, and that had been the road he'd traversed from Metropolis to Gotham. A journey that was meager in terms of miles but lengthy and rocky in emotional distance.

And when he reached the outer wall, with its bridge drawn and sentinels on the Parapet, their bows and arrows poised to do their worst, he'd whispered words of apology and regret and held his arms up and high, willing to accept his punishment.

The drawbridge had lowered, and so did the weapons aimed at his heart.

Clark Kent had been allowed through the wall but not yet into the castle. And there he remained, unperturbed by the silence and coldness within the stone structure. Making himself at home, the vassal went about warming the interior, mending cracks and holes and putting all to rights. Creating a habitable space that was welcoming and secure, welcoming and trusting, welcoming and wanting.

Then the door to the castle slowly, creakily opened, beckoning the vassal forward, a glimmer of light shining just within.

Dusting himself off, he'd come. Back straight, chin up, eyes forward, heart pure, he'd advanced, sure of the inevitability of his invitation in each confident stride. But there was no arrogance there, none found within the willing vassal, only hopefulness borne of trials overcome and a deep, abiding trust in oneself and the lady of the castle.

And when Diana had read Clark's book, each word, sentence, and paragraph had held her captive in the heartbreaking yet uplifting talons of a Phoenix reborn. In the end, through murky swamps and paveless forests called life, for Clark, self-empowerment was no longer the road less traveled.

Clark had found his own empowerment and he'd grabbed it with both hands, the narrative an intimate portrait into the heart, soul, and mind of the man.

And it had been that self-portrait, the mirror that had been pointed at the world for so many years and used to judge others, had been flipped inward, a forced reflection of self. He'd opened up his Johari Window: the façade, what was known only to him; the arena, what was known to all, the unknown, what was known by no one; and the blind spot, what was known to others but not self.

Clark had written it all, laid out his Johari Window in a memoir that would resonate with thousands, if not millions of people. For who did not have their own Johari Window to which to contend?

Diana did.

So when Clark had kissed her, pressing his warm, familiar lips to her own, Diana had completely dropped the façade, giving in to her blind spot. Clark had known, as did her family and friends. It had been Diana who had refused to know, refused to see and admit the bond she'd once shared with Clark was slowly being reformed, different and stronger. _Different and stronger, just like the two of us._

"Even at the rate of one cent, I think the bill for my thoughts would be quite steep."

Clark glanced at the tinted glass separating the driver from Clark and Diana. "Is the partition sound proof?"

She nodded.

"What of visuals? Can Manny see us?"

"No, Clark. That's the point of the privacy glass."

The smile that followed her response was wicked and sensual.

Clark, who had been sitting across from Diana in the limo, moved next to her.

"This is better." Twining a hand in her hair, he pulled Diana close . . . and kissed her. Wet and wonderful, the kiss was their first since they'd parted at Clark's jazz club last Saturday. Diana hadn't seen him since. Except for the first two or three weeks when Clark first began researching Thomas Wayne, Clark had stayed in his Metropolis home whenever he wasn't scheduled to interview someone for the biography, or they had a date that was in Gotham. The last week had been no exception. He'd kissed her good night and that had been it, until he showed up at Wayne Manor this morning for their date.

It was unnecessary, but he wanted to escort Diana to Martha's home where they would meet up with his mother, friend and partner, Jimmy Olsen, C.J., and Lois. The thought of not only meeting Clark's son but also coming face-to-face with his ex-wife had given Diana a migraine. As far as Lois was concerned, Diana was the reason for her failed marriage, her husband's lack of total commitment. How would Diana handle an angry ex-wife? Or a son who may view her as trying to replace his mother, or perhaps even trying to take his father from him? It was all nearly too much when added to all the other drama she had to deal with.

But when Clark took her in his arms and kissed her the way he was doing now, all the termites threatening to destroy her home and life, bite by greedy bite, Diana temporarily forgot. She forgot and just allowed herself to feel the pleasure of being desired, of being held, of being kissed with wild wantonness.

Kisses to a throat gone dry, and bites to an ear that registered only the rapid pulse of her heart, had Diana moaning.

"You taste so good." One large hand found skirt, thigh, and then flesh. "You feel even better. So soft, so warm."

Mouth still working her neck, licking and kissing, Diana's eyes closed and permitted her body to absorb all the erotic sensations Clark was arousing in her. Old and new feelings mixed with new desires but also new fears.

As she'd told him on their last date, her life was not a peaceful one. Danger, real danger was a constant threat. It was a life she'd become accustomed; although, it was not a life she wanted. The standoff would end soon. The question, as it always was, was how it would end for the primaries—Diana Wayne, Lex Luthor, Talia and Ra's al Ghul?

Lips back on her mouth, Clark drew Diana deeper into his spell, his kisses a potent elixir, his roaming hands a magician's wand bending her sensitized body to his will.

She was falling - wanting a dream she couldn't yet have, too eager to forget all she had to conquer to have her Prince Charming. But there were dragons yet to be slayed, wrongs yet to be righted, and justice yet to be served. None of which she could do if she put her heart ahead of her soul.

And Clark needed to be told. Their phone conversations during the course of the week were not the ideal time to have such a conversation, so Diana had put it off, although he'd asked about her bodyguards. Too tempting kisses notwithstanding, now would be an ideal time to talk. _Maybe after hearing the truth, Clark may not want me anywhere near his son. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't._

Forcing her body to obey her mind, Diana broke the kiss.

Clark appeared surprised but unperturbed. He moved in to reclaim her mouth, and she nearly let him, his magic having stirred and awakened vestiges of Diana the woman.

"We need to talk."

One hand returned to her skirt and the skin Clark had revealed just above her thigh-high silk stocking. A thumb stroked over the warm skin, raising goose flesh and earthly need.

Diana bit back a moan and then a groan of disappointment when she repeated, "We need to do a bit of heavy lifting, Clark. You wanted to know about the bodyguards. I'm ready to tell you."

Some of the lusty fog clouding his eyes began to fade. The hand left her leg as he sat up and stared at her, desire for her clearly warring with his desire to have his questions answered.

"You know I want to know, but right now is like throwing ice water into my very hot shower."

She knew and she was sorry. Hell, she'd been in that nice, hot shower with him.

"We need to talk."

Clark returned to his original seat, placing him in front instead of next to her. "So you've said, Diana. And, yes, I want to know what's up with those bodyguards of yours." He ran a hand through his hair and took several controlled breaths. "We have about an hour before we reach Ma's house and if we can't spend it making out in the back of this insanely huge limo of yours, then we might as well check something off of my 'need to know about each other' list."

He had a list? Diana had no idea.

"What's on the list?"

"Don't worry about it. That conversation is a tangent. I'll tell you later. The bodyguards I want to know about now."

"Fine, but I want a copy of the list."

"Why? It's my list."

"Is the list about me? Us?"

"Yes."

"Then I would like to have a copy."

"Why?"

"For editing, of course."

His gaze narrowed. "You're not editing my list. It's _my list_."

Diana laughed, and Clark's eyes narrowed to annoyed slits that finally shone with a glimmer of comprehension.

"You know, Diana, I never liked that sense of humor of yours. You're not at all funny."

"It wouldn't be so funny, Clark, if you weren't so anal about certain things."

"Speaking of anal," he said, his eyes widening with his own humor, "that's number eight on my list. Tell me, Diana, have you changed your mind about that?"

When her mouth fell open, it was Clark who laughed, low and satisfied but with also masculine curiosity. A sexual yearning for something they had never done, something she'd refused to allow him to even try.

No way were they having _that_ conversation now.

Apparently satisfied he'd gotten Diana back; Clark reclined in the seat then took on a serious expression.

"Tell me about the bodyguards."

He knew plenty already. This didn't have to be a drawn out discussion.

"A year after Bruce had taken control of Wayne Industries as CEO; he discovered several discrepancies in the board's reports and other company documents. He began to investigate and learned more than he ever intended. Years of inventions deemed by the board as unsafe or unfit for use or sale had found their way, in some form or fashion, to Lexcorp."

"The Wayne board was stealing from their own company?"

"Yes, but worst, Wayne Industries receive many government offers to create weapons that's only purpose is to kill and destroy - land or people. Thomas Wayne always refused such contracts, no matter how much money he was offered. But once he died, the board began accepting those contracts, never asking or even informing Martha or Bruce."

"So the board put Wayne Industries in the military business?"

"More like the war and subjugation business. Big money, Clark. Money that comes with blood and suffering attached to it, I assure you."

"What did Bruce do when he found out?"

"He dug deeper, investigated the board members, unsure if they were all involved or just some. Not surprisingly, they were all guilty. Every single one of them received a kickback from their dealings with Lex Luthor. Betrayal pays handsomely."

"I assume that's the reason Hippolyta and Donna and the others now comprise your board."

"It was Bruce's idea. He planned to get rid of the lot of his father's old board and replace them with people he could trust. Hippolyta, Donna, and Ollie are business people through and through. John, Dinah, Mera, Mari, and Arthur provide their own and differing set of knowledge, skills, and perspectives. We don't all need to think the same to work as a collaborative, effective team."

And their diversity was their biggest strength, a leverage that had seen them through the last three years. There was no bit of information, no data set, no proposed plan that wasn't dissected from every possible angle, seen from every possible lens. They were no simple confederation of loosely united individuals but a true corporate league, a federation bound by shared values, beliefs, and goals.

"I'll tell you what I know, then what I speculate. I knew Bruce had been looking into the professional and personal lives of his board and that he had already dismissed the heads of Research and Design and Accounting for questionable business practices. I know he suspected Lex Luthor was the one bribing the board but none of his research directly linked Luthor to any member of his board - a Lexcorp employee or two, sure, but not the man himself. I know Bruce also thought Luthor had a partner."

And this was where the last conversation she'd had with her deceased husband became clearer, particularly in light of the e-mail he'd sent to Clark the night of his death.

By the way Bruce had refused to talk about business after the baby shower, Diana had known he'd learned something new in his investigation. He'd basically said as much when he'd tucked her in for what turned out to be the last time. _"I have a few documents I need to review. I'll tell you about them tomorrow,"_ he'd said to her.

It wasn't until Talia Head, a.k.a. Talia al Ghul had walked into Wayne Industries, seeking to fill the Administrative Assistant's vacancy, that Diana had begun to put the pieces together.

"Commissioner Gordon thought it best to put out to the public that the shooting was a robbery gone bad."

Clark's gaze intensified. "Are you saying it wasn't? Don't tell me someone deliberately tried to kill you and Bruce."

She wished she couldn't tell Clark that, but it would be a flat out lie.

"Gordon believes what I knew to be true when that beast of a man pushed his gun into my stomach and told me, 'That husband of yours thinks he can play with the big boys; he can't. But he'll learn. Oh, yes, he'll learn.'"

Then he had shot her, Diana's life no more valuable to him than an expired train ticket.

Immediately, Clark was next to her, putting his arms around her and holding her tight. It was then she realized she'd been trembling . . . and crying as she spoke those unforgettable words.

Through tears that wouldn't abate, she pushed on, needing to finish, needing him to know.

"That's how I came to know Steve Trevor. President Obama assigned several FBI agents to the case and put Steve in charge. But they found nothing on the assassins or any Intel to link Luthor or someone else to the shootings. Eventually, the other agents left and Steve stayed on, pledging himself to the case and my safety."

Head on Clark's sturdy shoulder, Diana continued. "Because I wasn't killed and have refused to slink away from the public eye, Steve and my family think I may still be a target. I have all the information Bruce gathered on the old board but I have yet to find the documents he said he would share with me. I'm positive whatever he found is what got him killed, the reason why those men were sent to my home."

"You think he found the link, the proof that would send Luthor to jail?"

That's exactly what she thought. To date, all she had were hollow speculations and a lot of partially connected dots.

"Yes. More importantly, I think Bruce discovered Luthor's partner in crime."

"Talia's father?"

She nodded, feeling better now that she wasn't talking specifically about the night of her chronic nightmares.

Retrieving a tissue from her purse, Diana dabbed her eyes.

"Four months ago, Talia Head came to me in search of employment, a recommendation by Lex Luthor in hand. As far as they were concerned, I had no reason to think of Luthor as anything other than a shrewdly brilliant, well-respected businessman with White House aspirations. Nor could they have known that I knew exactly who Talia Head was."

Clark was across from her again, respecting her need to tell her story without using him as an emotional crutch. But he was a lifeline for a woman who, despite her touted independence, still required one.

"The only thing I can reason is that Talia and Luthor assumed Bruce had never told me about his past conquests. Many people thought him to be a playboy who'd cleaned up his life for his wife but who was, at heart, a man of mystery and lies."

And Diana had hated that image of her husband, hated that he'd done much to create such a shallow, inaccurate image. But such low expectations had also served Bruce well when he'd resumed his rightful place as head of Wayne Industries. All too many, especially his deceitful board, thought him incapable of running the company, no less ferreting out their secrets.

But he had.

They did not know the real Bruce Wayne. And neither had Talia al Ghul.

"There were very few secrets between me and Bruce. And none involved his past lovers, including Talia. He told me about her when I returned from Europe and again when she tried to draw him into an affair with her. I didn't ask questions and he didn't elaborate. There was no need. I knew Bruce. Once he was done with a person or a project, he was done."

Whatever had been between Talia and Bruce was done and over with before he and Diana became an item. And she'd never given the woman a moment's thought until she appeared at Wayne Industries four months ago.

"I think Bruce found out that Lex Luthor was working with Ra's al Ghul, a wanted felon. I think Luthor, Ghul, or both learned what Bruce was up to and feared what he would do with the information. With a security code Talia probably managed to learn when she dated Bruce, Luthor or Ghul hired two killers and sent them to Wayne Manor to take care of Bruce and to find whatever information they believed Bruce had on them."

Bruce's library had been searched, that was clear, and his laptop taken. But they hadn't found the safe where Bruce had stashed the flash drive. But neither had Diana found Bruce's incriminating evidence. If she had, this horror that had become her life would have ended years ago.

"And Talia has no idea you know any of this?"

"No, and her ignorance will remain until I decide what to do with her. Right now, we've been allowing her to find pretty useless information on Wayne projects. Enough so that Luthor and her father think her spying is paying off but nothing that will harm us or anyone else. But what we've managed to learn from her has been priceless."

She'd tell Clark about the photos of Talia and Luthor later.

"We're hoping she'll eventually lead us to her father or the men who shot me and Bruce."

Clark studied her, his ocean blue eyes piercing and far too astute for her liking.

"This is all very complicated, Diana."

"I told you my life was complicated and not at all peaceful. Now you understand."

"I understand better than you know."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I haven't truly been listening to you. Don't get me wrong, I heard everything you said to me since we started this heavy lifting business. But I didn't really listen when you said you weren't ready, that you couldn't give me what I wanted."

He moved back to her side, twisting so that they were facing. Clark took her hands into his own.

"You were trying to tell me you quite literally are unable to move on with your life. I thought it was because you were simply afraid or couldn't trust me. But it's so much deeper than that, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He finally comprehended. Her future was inexplicably tied to her past and her present, no matter how much she may have wished otherwise. The bright light that was Clark Kent was beauty personified, a check she yearned to cash and deposit into Diana's First Bank of Lost Love. But she couldn't, not just yet.

"But you want more, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do."

She'd stopped denying that truth. Stopped lying to herself that all she needed for sustenance was the food of revenge and justice, a paltry, insubstantial diet at best. After having Clark back in her life, Diana knew she could never feast on moldy bread again, not when Clark offered her a smorgasbord that would leave her full and sated.

"I can give you that more. I want to give you all I didn't have it in me to give you before."

She believed him, but she couldn't lay down her burden. The dead cried out for justice, and so did the living. All those innocents hurt by Luthor and Ghul were not nameless, faceless people to Diana. They were people who counted - whose lives had meaning. She would not turn her back on them or her mission.

"I can't stop, Clark. I won't stop, not until this is over. Please don't ask it of me."

And what would she do if he did? If the ultimatum was put before her? Something would have to give. _Likely my heart, torn asunder. Again._

But his words of, "I traveled my journey, Diana, and so must you," had her melting into pools of sparkling magic that felt an awful lot like love. "If you need to find your peace, the key that will unlock the chains that bind you to the past, before we can be fully together, then do it. I'll be here. Trust me, I'm not going anywhere."

He hugged her. "How many times must I tell you that? I'm here for the duration, woman, for as long as you want me."

She wanted him for forever, but she was afraid to utter that wish aloud. Afraid that Clark, too, would be taken from her. And if that happened, Diana knew she wouldn't survive. The wretched thought had her shivering in his arms.

He held her tighter, and she was comforted by the steady, sure beat of his heart.

They had to be nearing Martha's home and Diana was not at all near her best. It hadn't been the wisest decision to have the conversation during the drive but it did feel good to have it all out in the open.

She lifted her head. "After all that I've told you, I'd understand if you changed your mind about today. It's not too late, Clark. Manny can drop you off and take me back to Gotham."

Clark reached around Diana, found her purse, and handed it to her.

"I assume you have a mirror and other stuff I can't begin to imagine in your purse. As beautiful as you are, you don't need it." He shrugged. "We have time. Dry your eyes and do your woman thing."

"My 'woman thing'?" Diana opened her bag and found her compact.

"You're not getting out of it, Diana. And I'm not about to let you draw me into another taunt. If I could get on those death traps you call roller coasters, you can suck it up and meet my son, ex-wife, and friend."

Her eyes were a little puffy and red. _Like I've been crying. Great. Martha will think Clark and I quarreled._ She grabbed a few more "woman things" from her bag and went to work, making herself presentable.

"You have selective hearing."

"No, I just won't allow you to use the unknown to dictate what we do or don't do."

"Allow?"

"It won't work, Diana. I refuse to be baited."

The limo slowed then stopped. Clark looked over her shoulder and out the tinted window, and then, with a frown of realization said, "The windows are bullet proof, aren't they?"

The answer was obvious so she didn't respond.

"When will all of this be over?"

"Soon." _I hope._

"Do you have a plan?"

"Tentative."

"Does it involve putting you in harm's way?"

She didn't answer.

He swore.

Then he kissed her. Hard and quick.

"Your plan is now officially added to my list. And I'm officially part of your plan."

She opened her mouth to object, but the damn man kissed her again then jumped out as soon as Manny opened the door.

Giving her own silent curse, Diana plastered on a smile then alighted from the car. It was time to meet Clark's family.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	30. Chapter 29: Pictures, Pits, and Kents

**Chapter 29: Pictures, Pits, and Kents**

**Metropolis, Martha Kent Residence**

Martha swept Diana up into a warm, familiar embrace. The physical strength housed in the shorter, older woman no longer surprised Diana. Neither did the words of, "I'm so glad you came with Clark."

She kissed Martha's cheek. "I would never miss your birthday. You know that."

Martha stepped back, her eyes shining with happiness and the kind of wisdom that came from a life well lived. "No, sweetie, you never miss my birthday. You always remember to call and send me a gift, but you know what I mean."

Yes, Diana knew precisely what Martha meant. Martha spent her birthdays with Clark and his family. There was no appropriate place at the Kent family gathering for a former fiancée, no matter how close she and Martha had grown. So Diana would make sure to call, sometimes sending a car to pick Martha up and bring her to Gotham a day or two after her birthday. The way she did for the Fourth of July celebration. Martha didn't travel beyond Metropolis nearly enough, so her birthday had proven to be an easy excuse to pamper a woman who never thought to treat herself.

"But she's here now, Ma."

Clark ran a proprietary hand over Diana's back, smiling at her as if he hadn't insinuated himself into her plan, a plan that had nothing to do with him. And now he had the nerve to grin down at her with his boyish innocence. Ha, there was nothing boyish or innocent about Clark Kent. The man was an emotional menace, plowing through Diana's self-control and sense of order.

"Why don't we go all the way in the house, Ma?"

"Of course. Of course. I was just so excited when I saw the limo pull up that I ran outside without a thought." Martha stepped to the side and ushered them both in. "Come in you two. It's nice and cool in here."

Diana followed Clark into the ranch-style house. The Metropolis neighborhood Martha lived in was as close to rural as the urban city had to offer. All the homes in the immediate vicinity were one-level dwellings shaped like an "L," with large plots of land surrounding the brick houses. It wasn't the Smallville Kent farm, but it was a peaceful slice of Metropolis living that was quiet but also accessible to all that a big city had to offer a vibrant widow like Martha Kent. _And, of course, she gets to see her son and grandson regularly._

When they reached the living room, the hominess of the house seemed to settle into its epicenter. Pictures abounded. The walls were full of them, mainly of Clark as a boy, but also of Jonathan and Martha as a young, in love couple. Newer, brightly colored pictures were also displayed, on tables and the mantel above the fireplace.

One was of Lois and Clark on their wedding day. Diana stepped closer to that one. Clark was handsome in his black tuxedo, standing proudly next to his bride, a vision in pearl white, her radiant smile just as beatific as her groom's _Lois. Clark's wife. Pretty and petite._

She moved on, scanning the other images, stopping when she reached a picture that caused the bottom of her stomach to drop. Clark and Lois again, both smiling, grins wider and happier than their wedding photo, and Lois held a bundle in a blue blanket. _Their baby. Their son._

Diana couldn't help but stare at the photo. It was lovely and precious. A frozen moment in time captured, framed and remembered. Hippolyta had similar pictures of Donna and Diana. So did Mera and Arthur and Mari and John. But none of those pictures included Clark as the proud father. And, to Diana's shame, a wave of envy, regret, and jealousy washed over her.

She thought herself past such feelings, past such pangs of melancholia for what she would never experience. Yet here she was, allowing mourning and longing to chomp away at her insides, making a meal of her resolve.

Diana closed her eyes and willed her body to relax. Today and now was not the time to fall apart. Emotions raw and wide open, thanks to Clark's unyielding persistence, Diana realized she was ill prepared for this day. Her normal shields were dangerously low. The fallout wouldn't be good. Ten minutes and too many Kent photos later, Diana was already regretting having agreed to this date. It was all too much.

"Are you okay?" Clark's soft, concerned voice was right behind her. His hands came to her shoulders. "You're shivering."

She hadn't realized. Diana forced her body to obey her and to still.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"No you're not, but you're trying really hard for my sake."

"I'll be fine. I just need a couple of minutes." She opened her eyes, then caught sight of another picture on the mantel. She reached for the silver framed photo.

"That's one of my favorite pictures of him," Clark said. "It's C.J.'s first day of school. I thought he would cry, but he didn't. He was such a big boy that day. After dropping him off, Lois and I were the ones with tears in our eyes, standing outside of his kindergarten classroom like two idiots." Clark laughed, the memory clearly a good one. "Us and about a dozen other parents suffering from separation anxiety."

The aching pit expanded, its' teeth growing, sharpening, its' tongue whipping out and lashing Diana's heart. She turned into Clark's chest, breathing him in as if the strength of his masculine scent alone would protect her from the pull of the ravenous pit of despair. But he couldn't. No one could, no one but Diana.

Letting him go, Diana stepped back, resigned to the fact that today was simply going to be one of _those_ days – painful but manageable. _Like my life._

"So, are you ready to meet a few people?"

"If I must."

"Well, considering they're probably already here, you must."

Taking Diana's hand, Clark led her to a fenced-in backyard. The area was spacious with an in-ground pool to the right. Two deck tables with chairs and umbrellas were also off to the right, and a grill to the left.

A reedy redheaded man approached.

"Diana, this is my best friend and business partner, Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy, this is Dr. Diana Wayne."

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy."

"Ah, yeah, yeah, nice to meet you."

Jimmy gave her a curious look before shaking his head at Clark and whistling. "Some guys have all the luck," he mumbled. To Diana, he said, "If you ever get tired of tall, dark, and overly muscled Kent here and want a guy who will worship you like a goddess, give me a call."

"We talked about you and the crap that comes out of your mouth, Jimmy."

"What? You have to know Diana is way too gorgeous to settle for a low-rent novelist like you. A woman must know all her options, have all the facts."

"You're not an option, Jimmy; you're a photojournalist with illusions of grandeur." Clark playfully shoved his friend. "And stop hitting on Diana before I throw you in the pool to cool you off."

Jimmy glanced at the pool behind him. "I think if you did that, the pretty doctor would come to my rescue, wouldn't you Dr. Wayne."

"I'm not a medical doctor," Diana said, enjoying the playful banter between Clark and Jimmy. Jimmy was a harmless flirt who brought out a different side of Clark. A side that reminded her of the sometimes goofy young man he'd been in college. "But, yes, if Clark were so cruel as to toss you into the pool, I would come to your rescue."

He winked at her. "And if I required mouth-to-mouth . . . you know, to resuscitate me. You could pretend to be that kind of doctor. I wouldn't mind, nope, not at all."

Diana bit back a smile when Clark lunged for his friend, who, quite easily, evaded him.

"You might be big, Kent, but I'm faster. All those muscles slow you down."

"I'll be right back. I have a scrawny loud mouth to deal with."

With that, Clark not so slowly closed the distance between himself and a laughing, taunting Jimmy Olsen. But, true to his word, Jimmy was indeed much quicker than Clark, using tables, chairs, and a swing set to avoid Clark.

As Diana watched Clark, she was reminded of how very much he'd changed, and how little she could offer him beyond darkness and despair. The light she projected was a dim one at best, a false one at worse. Yet Clark's eyes and hearty laughter held the power of a thousand, glorious stars, each brighter than the next. Next to Clark, Diana was a shadow. A wilted flower denied the face of the sun for so very long.

"They act like children sometimes."

Diana turned toward the female voice.

"Hi, I'm Lois."

"Diana."

"Yes, I know."

Lois, an attractive woman with dark hair cut in a short fashionable style, stared up at Diana. Like the pictures, she'd seen of the woman earlier, Lois was short and thin of frame. But there was nothing weak in the other woman's bearing, physical or otherwise. And the way she unabashedly examined Diana was almost primal.

"My god but you're nearly as tall as Clark. I mean, I knew you were tall, but damn, you must be at least six feet."

This woman couldn't be serious. Who in the hell commented on a stranger's height as if it were polite conversation? Should Diana in turn compare Lois's height to that of a garden gnome? Donna would, then again, Donna could be just as rudely outspoken as Lois apparently was.

Lois cleared her throat. "While Clark is busy, I thought we could talk. You know, woman-to-woman."

Inwardly sighing, Diana nodded then followed Lois back into the house and the room with all the family photos. Great.

Diana sat.

Lois remained standing.

Diana didn't care; let the smaller woman have the power position. She just wanted this conversation over and done with. Whatever Lois had to say, Diana would listen and make her escape as soon as possible. Diana had no wish to get in to something with Clark's ex-wife, especially if that were Lois's intent, which she hoped it wasn't.

"I thought we should speak before you met my son. C.J.'s napping, but he'll be up soon."

"What's on your mind?"

"First, I want to say that I really used to hate you. I mean that quite literally. Not dislike or despise but a true, deep-seated kind of hate."

Oh but Lois Lane was so not what Diana had expected. The woman was brash and lacked a filter she should've acquired long ago. Her lack of polish and subtlety would've sent Donna into fits of amused laughter and Hippolyta into a fit of annoyed anger. Diana, though, well, she had no use for laughter or anger now. Feeling understandably threatened, Lois was scenting her territory. And, yes, the claws were out.

Diana, however, was unfazed. No, she was actually intrigued. Intrigued enough to allow the woman to bluster, if need be, but not so intrigued that she would countenance outright hostility or disrespect. Her patience did have its limits.

"I used to blame you for all that was wrong in my marriage. Every argument was your fault. Every time Clark locked himself in his study, shutting me and the world out, I blamed you. Every time an unexplained wistfulness crossed his face, I knew he was thinking of you, regretting his decision to marry me instead."

Pain etched each of Lois's words. Pain directed at Diana. But Diana was not to blame. She hadn't interfered in Lois and Clark's marriage. Even if she hadn't been married, Diana was no home wrecker. She would have never attempted to come between Clark and his family. Yet Lois had blamed her. Diana assumed she would, even though it wasn't rational to do so. But Diana knew all about the irrational pull of emotions. They didn't have to make sense. In truth, most of the time they made no sense at all, which made them no less real, no less hard to handle.

"I used to wonder what was so special about you. Why Bruce Wayne would give up his playboy lifestyle to marry you, or why Clark Kent found it impossible to forget you?" Lois gave an unladylike snort of disgust. "I envied you for so long, and I envy no one, Diana. But I did envy you and the happy marriage you had. I envied you right up until . . ."

"Until two crazed killers broke into my home, killed my husband, and shot and killed my unborn child." Fed up, Diana stood. "You know nothing of my life Ms. Lane. But you're right; it isn't one worth envying. Whatever happened between you and Clark was not my fault. Hate me all you want, if it makes you feel better. But I did not come here to be raked over the coals by you or anyone else. It was your marriage, take responsibility for what occurred."

Diana's voice had lowered to a dangerous level. The woman was too much, and so was this outrageous, pointless conversation. Diana needed to end this, needed to get away from Lois before Diana said something she knew she wouldn't regret but which would likely ruin Martha's birthday.

"I'm done with this part of the conversation. If there's something you wish you tell me about your son, I'll listen, otherwise, I'm leaving."

"You have a bit of a temper, don't you?"

She hadn't begun to see Diana's temper, yet another reason why Lois really needed to shift gears or end the unwanted and unwarranted confrontation.

"There was actually a point to everything I just said. Although, I suppose I could've said it differently. What I was trying to say, Diana, is that I'm fine with you dating Clark. I know what happened in my marriage wasn't your fault. You were an easy excuse, a convenient outlet for my frustration and anger. Clark and I were good for a while, but we didn't have it in us to last. I wasn't who he truly wanted and he was a nice guy who accepted me—quirks and all—while asking very little of me. I invested time and energy into building his career, but not the same time and energy into building the bonds of a good marriage. We were more like business partners who shared a home and had sex. That's not a marriage. The truth is that I was more committed to Clark as a writer than him as a man, as a husband, even as a father."

Diana looked toward the pictures on the mantel again. Happy, smiling faces grinned back at her, a mockery of what happened after the pictures were taken and framed for posterity. The untold story, that's what Lois was sharing now.

"I just want you to know I have no intention of standing in your way if you want to be with Clark. He was never completely happy when we were together, and neither was I. But I believe you can make him happy, in a way he deserves."

"You don't even know me. How can you possibly know whether I'm capable of making Clark happy?"

"Because you're here. Because you sat through five minutes of me being a bitch and leveling unfair accusations at you, taking it all until I entered sensitive territory. And you would've allowed me to go on, wouldn't you; blaming you for my failed marriage even though it wasn't your fault?"

"I'm not here to argue with you, Lois. I will not argue with you, but I also will not talk about my supposed 'charmed life' before the deaths of my husband and baby. Outside of how it will impact Clark and C.J., I don't care what you think of me. I do, however, care if you have a concern about me meeting and getting to know your son. If you do, please just say it so we can move on."

"Impatient, too."

"Not impatient, just not enjoying this woman-to-woman you wanted to have with me."

"Oh, Smallville, will have his hands full with you. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when the two of you argue. I bet your arguments will be epic."

Without thinking, Diana rolled her eyes at the shorter woman. The anticipatory glee in Lois's eyes was strange and more than a little annoying. Besides being cute as a pixie and an excellent agent, Diana had no idea what Clark had seen in Lois that made him marry her. Then again, Diana mused, some had wondered the same when she married Bruce. But Bruce had been a good, loving husband to Diana. _Lois was probably a good, loving wife to Clark._

"Did Clark tell you about C.J.?"

"About the accident and C.J.'s epilepsy? Sure."

Lois nodded. "Good. If you're going to be around him, you need to know. I brought some information with me about children with epilepsy. Many people feel uncomfortable around him, but I've found they tend to feel that way because of their ignorance about the condition."

Once learning of C.J.'s condition, Diana had read several scholarly articles about children living with epilepsy and ordered a couple of recently published books on the topic. Lois was correct. People tended to fear what they knew nothing about. And Diana wasn't arrogant enough to believe that having read a few articles about epilepsy gave her an insight into what it meant to raise such a child, but she at least now had more than a cursory understanding of the medical condition. And if Lois had additional documents for her to read, Diana would gladly accept them.

"Thank you. We should probably be getting back now." Relieved to have the conversation over, Diana began to walk toward the door.

"What about the dreams?"

Diana stopped and turned back to Lois. "What dreams?"

"Since the accident, C.J. has dreams."

"All kids have dreams."

"Not like C.J. He says he sees things, speaks to people."

"Nightmares?"

"Nothing that simple. I really don't know. He says stuff sometimes that kind of freaks people out. Clark didn't mention any of this to you?"

Clark had mentioned that C.J. wasn't like other children, that he was wise for a child his age. But Diana had thought Clark was referring to his son's medical condition and near fatal accident. That kind of trauma often made children appear older than their years. But if the child suffered from nightmares, well, that was one thing, unfortunately, Diana had in common with C.J.

"No, not specifically."

"I'm not surprised. Clark thinks C.J. just has an overactive imagination."

"He doesn't?"

"I think it's more than that. But Clark could be right. The fact that the dreams began after the car accident is probably a meaningless coincidence. His doctor assured us the dreams were just his mind's way of coping with the epilepsy and that they would go away in time."

Lois sounded more hopeful than convinced.

"I didn't want you to misunderstand if he says something to you that may seem strange or weird."

"He's five, from what I understand five-year-olds say and do strange and weird things all the time."

Lois laughed. "Well, that's definitely true. Look, Diana, I know I didn't approach our conversation in the best way, but I hope, in time, we can grow to like not just tolerate each other for the Kent's sake. In spite of the divorce, Martha still loves and treats me like a daughter, and, from the way she rushed to the door when you arrived, I think it's safe to say she feels the same about you."

Diana shook the offered hand, glimpsing the softer woman behind the cool, no-nonsense exterior. A woman, who, yes, in time, Diana could grow to like - to maybe, one day call her friend.

Lois glanced down at her watch. "It's time for me to get C.J. Why don't you go back to Clark, and I'll bring C.J. down to join everyone in a few minutes."

They exited the living room, going in different directions. No offense to Lois, but Diana now sported a headache the size of the overbearing woman, and she still had hours yet before the day would be over. How one small woman could make Diana yearn for the simple treachery of Talia al Ghul was beyond Diana.

As soon as she exited the house, Diana caught Clark's gaze. In no time, he was standing in front of her.

"Lois cornered you, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Was it awful?"

"She still loves you."

Clark appeared incredulous. But Diana heard all the words Lois hadn't spoken, and they were sentiments of love. The other woman had released Clark from their marriage, but part of her still clung to the love they had shared. It may not have been enough to keep them together, but, after three years of divorce, it was still strong enough within Lois to compel her to speak so candidly of hatred to the woman dating her ex-husband. And Lois, despite her claim, couldn't hide from Diana the sliver of hatred that still lingered. As a successful businesswoman, Diana was far too good at reading people's veiled emotions to misjudge someone, like Lois Lane, who wore her heart on her sleeve.

"Lois doesn't still love me. We just have a good post-marriage relationship."

Diana didn't bother correcting Clark. It didn't matter. In time, it would all work itself out. Such things always did. And when Diana heard a squeal of delight from behind her and watched as Clark went to his son, the little boy jumping into his father's arms, Diana stood corrected.

Beside Clark and C.J. was a smiling Lois. The three of them laughed and chatted while Clark held his son. The image they made reminded Diana of all the others on Martha's mantel. They were a beautiful family – all dark haired and glowing, vibrant eyes.

They were the light.

Diana was mists and shadow.

And she had ruined their family.

Not intentionally. Not even knowingly. But she was to blame all the same. And the child wiggling and giggling in his father's arms, happy and safe, deserved the childhood Diana did not have. _Both parents in the home, and I'm standing in the way of that._

"Diana," Clark said, suddenly in front of her, "this is my son, Clark Jr." He set the little boy on his spindly legs. "C.J., this is Daddy's friend, Mrs. Wayne, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you called her Mrs. Diana."

Big blue eyes stared up at her, the look probing and eerie as hell. Then he reached out, placed a hand on Diana's stomach. "You look like her. The little girl from my dreams." Two thin arms went around Diana's waist, C.J.'s face against her flat belly. "You have the same eyes. Don't be sad, Mrs. Diana, she's in a good place. A safe place. Her Daddy is with her."

On a child's warm breath, Diana fell into the pit, devoured whole.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	31. Chapter 30: Losing Diana

**Chapter 30: Losing Diana**

**Metropolis, Martha Kent Residence**

Clark felt like everything was moving in slow motion. A horrible train wreck taking place before him but his limbs, his mind too slow to react, too stunned to do anything other than watch the brutal collision unfold.

C.J. was speaking, saying words no child should ever say. Then he was wrapping his tiny form around a woman he'd just met, a woman who stood stock still, staring down at the speaking child with a mix of unfathomable pain and controlled distress.

For long seconds, no one moved. No one spoke. No one did anything to rescue Diana from C.J., a sweet child with a heart of gold who, in his innocence, had just reached into Diana's chest and ripped her heart out.

But when C.J. lifted his eyes to Diana's and said, "I have a secret to tell you," Clark finally snapped out of his stupor and into action. Slapping a hand over his son's mouth and yanking him back, Clark knew his response was far too late. The damage had been done.

Diana's bleak eyes told the story all too well. They continued to stare at C.J., blue meeting blue, neither seeming able to look away from the other. A strange, hypnotic tether keeping them connected, locked in a crumbling house of horrors.

Turning his son to face him, Clark lifted C.J., ending whatever odd thing that was going on between the child and Diana. That must have done it, for Diana began to blink then to shake her head as if waking from a nightmare. C.J., however, appeared enthused, clear headed, and anxious.

"Are you all right, sweetie?" Martha approached Diana, worry rimming her brown eyes. "Maybe you'd like to sit down and have a drink of iced tea. I can fix it for you. Why don't you come with me?"

Diana didn't move, didn't as much as acknowledge Martha. No, all her focus was on the child wiggling in Clark's arms, demanding to be released so he could "speak to Mrs. Diana."

Well, that damn sure wasn't going to happen. C.J. had said quite enough.

By slow degrees, Diana shifted her eyes away from C.J. and to Clark. And he didn't like what he saw there, not one bit. She had retreated. Not behind her ice wall but to a place Clark feared was beyond his reach. He wanted to say something, needed to say something. But there were too many people around, and Diana's stone face halted any thoughts of engaging her in conversation.

Giving Clark her back, Diana turned to Martha. "No thank you. I think I would prefer a swim instead. I left my bag in the limo. I'll retrieve it then you can show me where I can change."

"Ah, yes, of course. A swim sounds like a fine idea. Maybe I'll join you."

Without a word or even a glance back, Diana followed Martha into the house, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

Clark put his son down then had to grab the boy hurriedly when he made to follow Diana.

"Where do you think you're going, young man?"

"I wanna talk to Mrs. Diana."

"I think you've said quite enough to her. We talked about this C.J. I thought you understood. You can't just go around saying stuff like that. It makes people uncomfortable and afraid." Hell, it made Clark uncomfortable and afraid. The child's dreams and eerily accurate predictions made Clark cringe. And they always surrounded death and dying.

"It's not his fault. He's just a child; he can't help what he sees and feels."

Lois was forever taking C.J.'s side, easily accepting the oddity that their son had become while conveniently ignoring the real fact that such behavior would push him farther to the margins of society as he grew. The child needed to learn self-control.

"He can control what he says, Lois. Yes, I know he's only five, but C.J. knows better. He can do better than blurting out whatever comes to his mind. We've discussed this with him. He knows to come to us first, that we decide what, if any, of his thoughts or dreams should be shared."

Perhaps that was too much to expect of a five-year-old, but what was the alternative - have C.J. rambling on about seeing and speaking to dead people? As it was, he had so few friends at school. After an epileptic attack before the fall break, many of his classmates shied away from him, afraid they would do something to trigger another episode. They were young children and weren't being intentionally mean, but their reaction to his differentness had greatly hurt C.J. Clark didn't want such shunning and fear to mar C.J.'s childhood, to leave a jagged scar in his heart that would take decades to heal. _Like mine had._

"I think your lady's going to bolt, Kent. You should probably go after her."

"She won't leave, Jimmy."

Not because she didn't want to, Clark knew. The desire to get as far away from the Kents as possible was there in the way she'd first spoken about Lois still being in love with him, and even more so after what C.J. had said to her about her dead daughter.

"Diana is far too polite and gracious to leave, especially on Ma's birthday. She'll stay for the day."

"And then what, Smallvile? Jimmy's right, you should go after her."

Holding fast to his son's hand, Clark peered down at Lois. "And what did you say to her, Lois? Diana didn't exactly look in the best of spirits after the two of you spoke."

"Just a little girl talk." She shrugged. "You act as if we conspired against her. I have nothing against Diana."

Clark didn't know if he entirely believed Lois. She had a way of manipulating a situation to her advantage. And while Diana was no shrinking violet, Clark also knew she was putting her best foot forward today to accept his ex-wife, best friend, and son.

"Besides, you were the one who didn't tell her about C.J. I felt it was my duty to make sure she knew what she was getting herself in to. I don't want your girlfriend treating my son as if he's some creepy kid."

No Clark hadn't told Diana about C.J. and his dreams. Perhaps he should have, but he knew Diana well enough to know she would never mistreat C.J. or any other child. Still, who could've predicted the way C.J. seemed to be drawn to Diana. _And he claims to have spoken to her deceased daughter. Shit._

"He is kinda creepy," Jimmy said on a whisper, as if the small boy standing between them couldn't hear. "I mean . . . what he said to Diana would freak anyone out. Who says that stuff anyway? She's probably on her way back to Gotham as we speak."

"Diana's not on her way back to Gotham." Martha stood in the threshold of the open sliding glass door. "But she is still in the car. She needs a few minutes to herself, that's all. Leave the girl be and stop talking as if small ears aren't around."

"She's sad, Granny. Mrs. Diana is very, very sad because her little girl is gone."

"I know, honey. Come here."

Clark released his son's hand and the child skipped to his grandmother, opening his arms wide for her to pick him up. She did, and then carried C.J. to the swing where she proceeded to speak to the child in a tone too low for Clark to make out.

Lois slapped Jimmy on the shoulder.

"Ow, what was that for?"

"My son is not creepy. If anything, you're the creepy one, always taking pictures of half-dressed women."

"I don't take pictures of half-dressed women. They're fully dressed when I snap my shots."

"With their permission?"

Jimmy hedged and wisely said nothing.

"This was such a bad idea." Yet it had seemed like a sound one when Clark had thought to invite Diana. She and Martha were good friends. Jimmy, while a flirt, was kind and funny, the type of guy that grew on a woman. C.J. hadn't had an episode in months, and his infectious smile alone was normally enough to melt anyone's heart. And then there was Lois, who, for the most part, knew how to behave herself when the situation warranted. Yet the day had crashed and burned in record time, an hour having not even passed since Clark and Diana arrived. _Now she's sitting in the car, probably cursing the trust she'd placed in me._

Taking a seat at one of the tables, Clark, Lois, and Jimmy said nothing, just watched as Martha pushed C.J. on the swing.

Twenty minutes later, Diana returned. Dressed in a red one-piece bathing suit, she walked past the trio and to the pool where she dove in, her technique flawless, her body in the skintight suit arousing.

"Damn." Jimmy sat forward in his chair, appreciative eyes fixed on Diana as she swam from one end of the pool to the other. "Where in the hell is my camera when I need one?" Digging into his pants pocket, Jimmy pulled out his cell phone and aimed it at Diana.

Clark snatched it out of his hand.

"What the hell, Kent?"

"Do you honestly think I'm going to let you take a picture of my girlfriend for whatever perverted games you play while alone at night?"

"Dude, your girlfriend's hot. I mean _Playboy _of the month kind of hot. What in the world were you smokin' when you decided to break up with her? Her legs are as long as my entire body and I bet as smooth as silk."

"Shut up, Jimmy."

"No wonder you couldn't forget her. Who could forget a body like that?" Jimmy stood and toed out of his tennis shoes. "She's like a siren, calling to me." Off came his black _Call of Duty_ T-shirt. "Good thing I'm wearing trunks because I want to take a dip into that."

And off the redheaded perv went, the double entendre of his last sentence not lost on Clark.

"I can't believe you invited him."

Neither could he. Today was officially the worst date ever.

His son was speaking to a dead girl. His former wife was grumpy and uncooperative. His best friend was being a shameful flirt. And his girlfriend had emotionally shut down and, apparently, wasn't speaking to him.

Only in the world of Clark Kent could so many points of crazy converge.

Yet here he was, sitting next to his ex-wife watching Diana with a lust that matched Jimmy's. And she was smokin' hot in that red Speedo of hers. Every curve, every dip, every muscle shone with perfection as she glided through the water – a sea nymph more than a siren.

"You're as bad as Jimmy. Maybe you should take a picture. It'll last longer."

Her arms were crossed over her chest when Clark, reluctantly, pulled his eyes away from a wet Diana.

"You were the one who told me to go after Diana. Now you're acting like a jealous wife."

Lois huffed. "I'm not jealous. I just don't see what the big deal is. Sure, Diana's pretty in an I'm-as-tall-as-an-Amazon kind of way. You know; if you go for the brooding female type, which you, Jimmy, and even C.J. apparently do."

"You're jealous."

She uncrossed her arms but squinted at him in an annoyed way he hadn't missed seeing in the least.

"I'm not jealous. But maybe I should find one of C.J.'s old bibs for all the drooling you and Jimmy are doing."

Diana was drool worthy. Clark couldn't deny that. But she may also have been right about Lois harboring lingering feelings for him. Even if she did, things between them were over. Whatever she was feeling now probably had more to do with actually seeing Clark and Diana together than wanting to be with Clark herself.

And while it was something they would eventually have to discuss, Clark had no intention of wading into that prickly bush today. His hands were already full with the potential blowback of the C.J. reveal on his relationship with Diana. His ex-wife's issue was a distant second, maybe even third.

So, yeah, Clark accepted he wasn't above a bit of drooling and that his life was more complicated then he'd realized.

The complication only grew the longer the day went on. Diana, while physically present, was miles away. She nodded and smiled at all the right times, giving everyone what Clark knew to be her cool, detached business persona.

Then there was C.J., who refused to leave Diana's side. Every time Clark turned around, there was C.J. sidling up to Diana, touching her, talking to her, treating Diana as if she were his long lost best friend. And when he made to retrieve the boy, Martha gave him a stern shake of the head saying, "Whatever is between them, Clark, can't be stopped. You might as well let them work it out."

"Work what out, Ma? They only just met."

"I have no idea. But there's a bond. That's easy enough to see. You may not like it, and it may scare poor Diana, but it's there all the same." Martha pointed at Jimmy. "But you can go get that lovestruck fool. If he asks Diana to marry him one more time, I may have to duct tape his mouth shut."

Feeling like the captain of a ship whose crew had mutinied, Clark rose and walked toward Diana, C.J., and the ever-lurking Jimmy. Clearly sensing Clark was in no mood for his friend's shenanigans; Jimmy scurried away before Clark reached him.

Having changed out of her bathing suit and into a pair of shorts and a tank top, Diana sat at the pool's edge, feet in the water, C.J. right next to her, his swinging legs far too short to reach the water, not that the child seemed the least bit interested in the pool. No, the silent Diana had his son's undivided attention.

Slipping out of his sandals, Clark sat on the other side of Diana. Her eyes were cast down, staring at the slow moving ripples of the water. She said nothing, just sat there, a beautiful slab of marble.

And Clark knew he was losing her, that the Diana he'd unearthed over the last three months was slowly slipping away from him. He opened his mouth, determined to put a halt to her backward slide, but C.J.'s words reached her first.

"You slept for a long time, Mrs. Diana. She told me you did. She told me you didn't want to wake up."

C.J.'s little hand found Diana's and held it.

"I slept too. When I was in the hospital, I slept. But I woke up and my Mommy and Daddy were there."

He slid closer to Diana, and Clark wanted to separate the two, put an end to his son's innocent torment. But his mother was correct. Something unexplainable had drawn the two together, something beyond Clark's reasoning and experience, something unavoidable and perhaps ordained. He didn't have the right words. Even as a writer, he didn't have the words to accurately capture what was happening between C.J. and Diana. But there was something. Sitting there, he could feel it, a breathing, throbbing pulse in the air that hovered where C.J's hand was joined with Diana's.

"You saw, didn't you? When you died, you saw her."

Diana had died? Could that be true? No one at the hospital had said. True, he wasn't there when she'd first been brought in. And anything could've happened on the way to the hospital. But died? Surely, she would've . . . done what? Told Clark? _Not likely. We haven't gotten to that level of heavy lifting yet._

"You wanted to stay."

Was that why Diana was in the coma so long? Is any of this possible? Clearly it was, because tears were streaming down Diana's face, her body as straight and unmoving as the Statue of Liberty.

Careful of the pool's edge, C.J. crawled into Diana's lap, straddling her with his small body and hugging her. Thin arms wrapped around her neck. He began to soothe her, the way Clark did when the boy would awake screaming from a bad dream, yelling at ghosts, only C.J. could see, to leave him alone. Now the child was trying to take away the pain his too honest words had caused.

And Diana slipped that much farther away from Clark. He was out of his depth and drowning fast.

"You had to leave, Mrs. Diana. You couldn't stay. She understands." C.J. stroked Diana's wet hair. "She does understand. And she wanted me to give you a message." If possible, C.J. leaned in even closer, so close Clark couldn't hear what the boy had whispered to Diana. But whatever it was, her tears did not stop. And neither did C.J.'s reassuring embrace.

In that moment, Clark was both disturbed by what his son had said to Diana and proud of the child for the way he was comforting her. And, despite her tears and grief, Diana hadn't pulled away, hadn't said as much as a disapproving word to C.J. Instead, she silently accepted all that the child had shared, neither confirming nor denying his words.

No longer able to stomach what Clark knew had to be unimaginable pain for Diana; Clark broke the moment by saying, "C.J., why don't you go tell Granny and Uncle Jimmy all about the new movie I took you to see yesterday?"

He lifted his head from Diana's shoulder, his interest in sharing the details of the movie he'd begged Clark to take him to clearly not as appealing as staying where he was. But the child was smart and knew he'd pushed this dream and death business as far as Clark would allow. So, with reluctance, C.J. drew himself off Diana, kissed her forehead as if she were the child instead of himself, and ran off toward his grandmother.

Finally alone with Diana, all Clark could think to say was, "I'm sorry. I didn't invite you here for this."

She said nothing but did turn wet eyes to him. With a single, robotic nod, the door he'd worked so hard to open slammed soundly in his face. He didn't need her words of, "I'll be leaving now," to know their date was over.

She stood.

He did the same.

"I promised Martha a day of shopping, so I won't return to Gotham tonight."

It was stupid and perhaps even selfish but Clark couldn't help but say, "There's plenty of room here, Diana. You don't have to stay at a hotel."

"Thank you but no. The hotel will be fine."

And the mask was firmly in place, her voice formal and distant. Clark wanted to shake her, to wake Diana from the nightmare that was their date, to bring back the laughing Diana who had smiled at him in the limo with such hope and desire. But that woman was gone, replaced by an alter ego who knew only fear, pain, and grief. _No hope. No joy. No light. Only darkness._

So Clark let her go, watched as Manny helped her into the limo then drove away.

"I can't believe you're just going to let her walk out of your life again. Didn't you learn anything from the first time, son?" Martha stood beside Clark, as upset as he was about the turn of events. "You're going to lose her if you don't do something."

Of course he had learned from the last time, but he also understood Diana better now. She needed time. The key was timing. If he chased her now, she would only shut down even more. But if he waited too long, giving her too much time to think and to convince herself they could never work, she would be too stubborn with decision to listen to reason. No, Clark had to time this perfectly, because, hell no, he was not going to lose Diana.

_Never again. _

"Don't worry, Ma, I can fix this."

"Famous last words from men the world over." She looked up at him disbelievingly. "Men have yet to learn that what they believe needs to be fixed is so rarely what is broken. Until you figure that out, Clark, consider Diana lost to you."

Clark stared down at his mother, whose opinion he'd always valued, always trusted. But he had no doubt he could fix this. Diana just needed a few hours to herself. After that, he would go to her and they would talk. By the morning, all would be fine. His mother would see. All would be fine.

Diana was not lost to him, _that_ he refused to believe.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	32. Chapter 31: Letting Go, Holding On

**Chapter 31: Letting Go, Holding On**

**Metropolis, Hilton Hotel & Resort**

"You've been in a weird mood for the last two hours."

Diana looked up from the laptop and into the dark brown eyes of her friend and bodyguard. Phillipus, a tall woman with high cheekbones, military grace, and black cropped hair that accentuated her regal Nubian nose and lovely face, sat on the plush couch across from Diana.

"Do you want to tell me about whatever has you moping about and on that laptop as if it held the secrets to the Universe?"

Diana closed out the Google search engine. She had read enough. And what she read about people with traumatic brain injuries hadn't exactly answered all her questions. There were, as she'd expected, reports of people, like C.J., who'd suffered brain damage claiming a connection to the afterlife, even seeing, and speaking with ghosts or the spirits of the deceased. Such claims, of course, couldn't be scientifically proven. Then again, they also couldn't be scientifically discounted either.

And if a phenomenon couldn't be proven, did that make it any less real? Diana had no good answer to that. She also couldn't, no matter how much she truly wanted, ignore all that C.J. had said to her today. Much of what he'd said to Diana could probably be explained away by a child who may have a tendency to listen in on adult conversations. Certainly, Diana and Donna had been guilty of eavesdropping on Hippolyta when they were C.J.'s age.

Perhaps the child had overheard Martha and Clark speaking about her. Maybe he'd even listened in on a phone conversation between Martha and Hippolyta. That would explain how he knew of Brina, Diana's coma, and even her death. Diana wasn't positive, but she thought Hippolyta or Martha Wayne might have told Martha about her flatlining as the ambulance rushed her to the hospital. She would have to ask her mother to be sure, but it was within the realm of possibility.

But then there was the message the boy had whispered in her ear. Even now, she had yet to warm from its chill. That couldn't be so easy explained away or rationalized with time and distance.

"Do you believe in spirits or ghosts, Phillipus?"

"You mean like in Casper or Freddy Krueger?"

Diana shrugged. "I guess. I don't know."

Phillipus lifted her bare feet and sat cross-legged, giving Diana's question serious thought, her brow furrowing as she considered the question.

"I guess much of what we believe can be boiled down to what some may call faith, which is another way of saying that what we may feel or think we know may not be supported by physical evidence. Faith is about what's in the heart not necessarily what's in the mind. Although it could also be cognitive in nature, I suppose."

"But does that make the existence of ghosts or spirits real? And, if so, can they communicate with the living?"

"If someone believes in ghosts or spirits, then it's true enough for them."

"Which isn't the same as it being real."

"No, I suppose not, Diana. The mind is a powerful thing, not an organ to be underestimated. There is much that is possible, my friend, but not all possibilities are probable."

"So you're saying the existence of ghosts and spirits is possible but improbable?"

"I have no idea what I'm saying or why we're having this strange ass conversation. Have you seen what you believe to be a ghost?"

Diana hadn't, but she had been touched by a child who'd claimed to have seen and spoken with the ghost of her deceased daughter. And when C.J. had touched her, a jolt of what she could only think of as energy had leapt from him and into Diana, a metaphysical bridge of sorts that bound her to the child. It was both disturbing and life affirming. _Like C.J._

"Clark's son believes in ghosts."

"Oh, well, a lot of kids do. That's not so strange, especially with all the crap they watch on T.V. nowadays."

"C.J., Clark's son, says Brina speaks to him, that she's come to him in his dreams."

Phillipus, who had just picked up the remote control and was pointing it at the flat screen television, froze, arm outstretched, eyes wide, and mouth open. After a moment of staring at Diana, her mouth closed and arm dropped. Eyes were still wide.

"He what?"

"He knew all about my coma and nightmares, and claimed he saw Brina in his dreams. He even said we look alike."

"Now that's just some creepy shit, Diana. No wonder you came in here looking like you'd been swept up into a tornado and left for dead."

That was as good an analogy of how Diana had felt as any, as if she'd been tossed about by an uncontrollable force of nature; otherwise known as Clark Kent Jr.

"He's actually a sweet little boy. He has a kind heart and sensitive soul. The kind of kid a parent doesn't mind coming home to because his hugs and toothy grin are genuine and all for you."

"So, ah, except for the creepy speaking to ghost stuff, you like the kid?"

"His parents have done a good job with him, there's much to C.J. to like. But," she said, thinking back on the odd way he looked at and spoke to her, "he also frightens me a little."

"Is it the child who frightens you, Diana, or the possibility of his unexplained experiences being true and not the figment of a little boy's overactive imagination?"

Leave it to Phillipus to cut to the heart of the matter.

"Remember, Diana, you died. By all accounts, you shouldn't be here, yet here you sit. Some may call you a miracle. Hell, I've heard several Wayne employees refer to you as exactly that. I don't pretend to know what lies on the other side of life, but some people claim to know. Who am I to say their wrong, to call them liars, or to think them frauds?"

Diana didn't think C.J. a liar. In fact, she believed the child believed every word of what he'd said to her. But he was, after all, only five. And a five-year old who'd survived a brain injury at the tender age of eighteen months and now suffered from epilepsy, may not know the difference between fantasy and reality.

Phillipus turned on the television, a man's voice could be heard talking about the heat wave assaulting Metropolis and the precautions people should take, particularly children and the elderly. Phillipus quickly moved on from the weather channel, and, as she always did, found the History Channel. The bodyguard was an avid lover of history, especially antiquity, leaning to ancient empires like Egypt, Mali, Nubia, and Greece. She knew all there was to know about ancient military combat, incorporating some of that knowledge into her personal fighting style. Phillipus was an excellent student of warfare. She was one of Diana's fierce Furies, her General in arms. Soon, Diana would have to call on Phillipus and the other Furies. _Soon, but not tonight._

Diana stood. "I'm going to take a shower then turn in for the night." The headache from earlier had yet to abate and she was soul weary. Diana knew she hadn't been the best of guests during Martha's birthday party. She would have to make that up to her tomorrow when they went shopping. And that meant she needed a good night's sleep.

"Good night, Diana."

"Good night, Phillipus."

Diana entered her room and closed the door. With Phillipus on duty, Diana had no fears someone would enter the hotel room unnoticed or uninvited. And if they did, they would have a six-foot General Phillipus to contend with. Still . . . one couldn't be too cautious.

After a hot relaxing shower, Diana sat on the edge of her bed, pill bottle in hand. She could not explain this one thing. Diana closed her eyes and heard C.J.'s baby soft words in her head. _"She wanted me to tell you to stop taking the pills. She wants you to dream of her. She wants to show you, to tell you."_

The plastic bottle felt like a lead weight in her hand, a necessary evil. Once leaving the hospital and returning to Wayne Manor, Diana discovered that sleep was no longer a safe place. After the shooting, after having the sanctity of her home violated, and, in a way, her body, sleep became a dreaded daily chore that was as inevitable as it was frightening. But the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed had helped. They didn't take away the nightmares, but they did aid her in finding sleep. Better, they also prevented her from remembering her dreams. But the sweat-drenched sheets and the screams that sometimes awoke her were the only signs that the nightmares still awaited her on the other side of the veil.

_But C.J. knew about the pills. How is that possible?_

Diana plucked the white cap off the bottle and shook one pill into her hand. Considering the capsule with sleepy, frustrated eyes, she threw the bottle across the room. She was so tired of relying on pills to sleep; so tired of running from her past; tired of being too afraid to confront the demons lurking in her mind. _Just so tired of being sick and tired._

Even if C.J. was a confused little boy seeking attention, Diana did need to stop taking those damn pills. They were a crutch she'd relied on for far too long, a crutch that was a petty enabler, keeping her weak and passive. But no more. _No more. Not tonight. Not ever again._

And if the dreams came, which Diana had no doubt they would, she would just have to face them on her own two feet. No crutch. If nothing else, Clark Kent Jr. was an example of how to cope and live with change and pain. The child had an indomitable spirit that dwarfed all of Diana's fears, creating a sense of smallness and inadequacy within her for not being as brave as a child.

Resigned to her fate, Diana turned the nightstand lamp off and crawled into bed, not bothering to get underneath the covers. No, she never did that. Covers hampered movement. And, if she learned anything from Dinah and Phillipus, it was to not minimize your mobility, to keep your arms and legs free for attack. That night, that dreadful night Diana had been pinned in by her covers, unable to move, unable to protect herself . . . _or_ _Brina_, she thought morosely. _That will never happen again._

Diana took deep breaths, closed her eyes, and began counting backward from a thousand. By the time she reached one hundred, sleep had claimed her.

_Diana knew she was dreaming. The fact that she was laying in the Wayne Manor garden was her first clue. The second was that the trees, while tall, wide, and solid, were red, orange, and pink with lollipops as leaves and licorice as branches. And where there should have been white and red roses along the stoned path, there were daffodils and dandelions with angelic, smiling faces that hummed the sweetest lullaby._

_A lullaby Diana recognized all too well. It was the same one Hippolyta used to sing to Diana and Donna, and the one Diana used to hum to Brina when her daughter had first begun moving in her stomach. _

_For endless minutes, Diana sat on the grass made of lush marshmallows and listened to the flowers sing. _

"_Angels watch over my baby,  
Grant her a lifetime of your care  
So that even when I cannot be with her  
I'll know you will always be there._

_Angels watch over my baby,_  
_Grant her a lifetime of your love_  
_So that even when my eyes are closed_  
_I'll know that you watch over from above._

_Angels watch over my baby,_  
_Bless every eyelash and curl._  
_For there is no one on earth any dearer_  
_to me than my little baby girl."_

_The flowers sang like the angels of faith, angels of myth, angels of Heaven. And Diana's questions about ghosts and spirits were forgotten, no longer relevant in this dream realm her mind had created. It was beautiful and glorious and full of all the things little girls dreamed of – flowers, sunshine, and candy._

_And when a tiny hand touched Diana's hair, she didn't have to turn around to know who had slipped into her dream. A landscape created with this visitor in mind. This place, this fantastic plane of hope, faith, and need could only be conjured by a mother who was no mother at all._

_Then the child stood before Diana - hair as black as onyx and eyes the color of lapis lazuli. And she was so exquisite, her cheeks plump and round, her fingers dainty and small, her lips pink and smiling, a replica of Donna when she was a tiny, whirling, laughing child of four._

_Afraid if she moved the unreal image would evaporate like so much mist, Diana remained rooted, clenching hands that ached to touch, to hold, to have. But her dream mind wasn't so far gone that she confused reality with fantasy. She wasn't C.J. She knew that once she awoke, her daughter, her Brina would be gone, left behind in a place that dwelled deep in Diana's cracked soul._

_Without words, Brina came to Diana, sitting in the protective circle of her lap. But Diana hadn't protected her daughter. She'd permitted a madman to take the child from her, to snuff out her life before she'd taken her first breath._

"_It's not your fault, Mother," Brina said, her delicate voice young yet ancient. "It was never your fault. You must believe. You must accept the truth."_

_How could she? Mothers were supposed to stand between their children and all harm. Yet . . ._

_Diana wrapped her arms around her dead child and cradled her to her beating chest, the heart that only now pumped because of the sacrifice of the little one in her arms. She inhaled deeply, needing something, anything to take with her. But all Diana could smell was lost innocence and denied dreams._

"_I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so very sorry. Please forgive me," she wept into the child's thick, shiny hair._

"_Forgive yourself, Mother. Forgive yourself."_

"_I can't."_

"_You must. For the both of us, you must."_

"_I don't want to leave you. I can't do that again."_

_Like C.J. earlier, Brina shifted until she was straddling Diana's legs, her wispy white dress blowing in an improbable wind._

"_I nearly took you with me when I died. You stayed too long. You don't belong here. Not yet. Not for a very long time."_

_This was the part she had never told anyone. During Diana's coma, she had visited this place before, or similarly crafted ones. And there she had stayed with her daughter, feeling both connected and not, convincing herself that if she returned to the waking world she could will Brina's soul to follow her own. But that had been a foolish notion she'd clung to for weeks, praying for something that had already been decided, already fated, already happened. _

_And when she could hold on no longer, when she was forced to give up and let go, Diana's heart severed, breaking in two and leaving Diana as half a person, half a soul, half a woman._

"_You're my Mother, you will never leave me. And I will never leave you." Brina held her head against Diana's rapidly pulsing heart. "I will always be in here, filling you with a daughter's love, holding your heart in my hands, keeping you safe while you move on but never away from me."_

_Diana couldn't stop the tears; couldn't stop hugging a daughter who could only ever exist in dreams. And she had been shutting her out, using pills to find sleep but never peace. No, she hadn't known true peace in three tortuous years. Diana's real peace was wrapped around her, sweetly but resolutely encouraging her to bury the past and to let go. But she didn't know how, didn't understand how she could both let go and hold on._

_And since this was Diana's dream, Diana's psyche manifesting itself, it was Diana, not Brina, who had to find the answers, Diana who had to make her way out of the maze in which her life had been unceremoniously dropped into._

_And perhaps it began with a little boy who dreamed of ghosts and spirits because his heart was innocent and full of wonder and love._

"_When I next sleep, will you come again?"_

"_I will come for as long as you need me. But soon, Mother, you will no longer need me. You will walk your own path, only looking back with fondness and love in your heart. The pain fading as you learn to forgive." Brina lifted her head then kissed Diana's cheek. "But, for now, we will walk the path together. My hand in yours My heart in yours. My soul in yours."_

_Diana wiped the tears from Brina's cheeks, nearly overcome with loving and missing someone she'd never truly known. "My dreams to your dreams, my precious baby girl."_

"_Yes," the child whispered. "In your dreams I have life. In your heart I've found love."_

"_Always."_

"_Yes, Mother, always and forever."_

_Diana settled them down on the marshmallow grass, closed her eyes and sang her daughter a lullaby, knowing when she awoke she would be alone but not lonely, because in her dream she'd discovered how to let go while holding on._

"_Missing your face and your touch  
Missing your kiss and your love  
Missing every little bit and a piece of you  
The many things that I would do  
Just to feel you, hold you  
It's so hard not to have you here_

_Because when I'm staring at the stars_  
_Looking at the moon wishing that I_  
_Could be there with you_  
_It's okay, and it's alright_  
_Baby listen to this lullaby_  
_Good night, sleep tight_

_Wherever you are_  
_No matter how far_  
_Just listen for me_  
_I'll sing you to sleep_  
_I love you, goodnight_  
_Dream away with me tonight"_

An unknown amount of time later, Diana sensed a presence in her room. In the darkness of the chamber, she could see nothing, which probably meant the intruder couldn't see her either. Then she felt it, a dip in the bed, a weight that was more than her own.

A hand touched her, on the shoulder.

She should have known Luthor would try something while she was in his city. For three years, she'd been preparing for this night, knowing that one day the baldheaded bastard would send someone to finish the job.

But Diana had no intention of dying tonight, or any other, so when that strong masculine hand touched her shoulder, she moved the way she'd been trained to do. Lifting her knees, she struck the intruder in his midsection then flipped him onto his back.

In one swift move, Diana reached under her pillow, grabbed the cold steel that had been Bruce's gun, and jammed the barrel in the man's chest, right over his nonexistent heart.

Finger on the trigger, Diana could hear or see nothing. She could only feel the cold satisfaction of having one of her family's killers at her mercy. And this was something she was not prepared to let go.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	33. Chapter 32: Triangle of Desire

**Chapter 32: Triangle of Desire**

**Metropolis, Hilton Hotel & Resort**

**Part 1**

Phillipus stood in front of Diana's hotel room, next to the chair where Manny had been sitting, his uncomfortable but well paid station for half of the night. Her security station, as always, was inside and out of sight. _Like the ghosts Diana mentioned earlier._

And Phillipus didn't even want to think much on that odd conversation. She just wanted to get Diana safely the hell out of Metropolis. This was Luthor's city, his playground for all things pretty, glittery, and full of bull. The man was a wolf in sheep's clothing. And, one day, Diana would finally give the orders Phillipus and the Furies have been waiting three years to hear.

Until then . . . well, she had to keep her charge in one piece, which was why she was outside the room instead of inside where she rightfully belonged. Ten minutes ago, the front desk had called up to the suite, informing Phillipus that Diana had a visitor. She'd sent Manny down to check it out. _He should've been back by now,_ she thought with growing impatience.

Another two minutes ticked by before she saw Manny and the visitor stroll around the corner. It was after midnight, and she had no intention of waking Diana, especially not after the way she'd looked when she dragged herself off to bed. _Manny should've known better. I'll have to have a word with him._

As they drew closer, Phillipus opened the hotel room door and peeked inside, quickly scanning the outer room. Then she frowned. _Diana's door is open. I know she closed it. She always closes it._

Fear swept through the general. This wasn't good, not good at all.

Ignoring Manny and the visitor, Phillipus sprang into action. Darting back inside, Phillipus ran to Diana's opened door, the room dark and foreboding. Then she heard it, a click Phillipus knew quite well. _A gun's safety._

Feet pounded behind her, but they wouldn't reach Diana in time. But Phillipus was already there, screaming at Diana to "Don't shoot, Di! Don't shoot!"

In a rush, she fumbled, desperately trying to find the light switch on the wall to her right. Finding it while still yelling, she flipped it on. A shower of white illumination flooded the room, revealing a heart-pounding scene.

Sprawled on Diana's bed with ravaged terror in his eyes was one lucky to be alive son of a bitch. Sitting on him like some crazed avenging angel was Diana. Gun shoved into his chest, the woman hadn't shot but her whole body trembled as if she had put a bullet through her Head of Security.

_Steve Trevor, you dumb fuck._

With great caution, Phillipus walked toward Diana, knowing that Manny and the visitor were now in the room with them.

"Diana, sweetie, you need to put the gun down."

Despite her trembling, the gun didn't waver, and neither did Trevor. Finally, the man was thinking with something other than his dick.

"Look at him, Diana, and see that it's just Steve. Your friend. He means you no harm. You have to stop pointing that gun at him."

Phillipus stopped at the foot of the bed, Diana's back to her. She was close enough to touch her, close enough to haul her butt off Trevor. But Diana seemed to be in some kind of trance. Hell, Phillipus couldn't even be sure if the woman was totally awake.

She'd seen Diana after one of her many nightmares and it was never a pretty sight. The poor woman sweated and shivered as if freezing, teeth chattered, hands cold as ice. Then there were her eyes, glossed over with pain and rage, unseeing even when opened. And while she couldn't see Diana's eyes now, Phillipus suspected they looked the same as all the other times.

Then there was Trevor, who was just as frozen as Diana. His face pale, eyes wide and focused on the woman holding his life in her hands.

And if Phillipus incautiously hoisted Diana off of Trevor, the woman not completely herself at this moment, she could possibly cause Diana to shoot the idiot. So she opened her mouth to speak, to say something to bring Diana back into herself and away from the precipice that would doom her and Trevor.

But before Phillipus could even form her thoughts, no less words, a large body swept past her and scooped Diana up.

"Get that asshole out of her room before I finish what she started."

Clark Kent held a dazed Diana in his very capable arms. There was a gentleness in the way he cradled her to him, and an undeniable air of protectiveness in the way his hostile eyes stayed on Trevor. Who, thanks to Manny, was now on his feet.

Kent watched until Manny escorted Trevor from the room. There was nothing friendly or pleasant in Kent's steel gaze. Phillipus knew the look, had seen it enough times in battle. The only thing keeping Kent from ripping into Trevor was the woman he held in his arms. That was clear to Phillipus. She didn't blame him. Trevor was way out of bounds.

Their eyes met.

"I got her. You get him out of here or I will."

She didn't doubt that but . . .

Taking three steps towards Diana, who hadn't stirred once, Phillipus stroked her tousled hair. Then gently reached for the hand that still gripped the gun, thankful when Diana didn't resist when she pulled it from her hand.

"I'll secure her weapon." For now, she shoved it in the back waistband of her jeans.

"You need to throw it away."

"She needs it."

"No she doesn't."

Phillipus sighed. _Civilians. _"Unfortunately, she does. And once she has her wits about her, she'll ask for it back."

"And you'll just return it to her? As if she hadn't nearly killed a man tonight?"

If the situation weren't so exhaustingly absurd, she may have laughed. "Mr. Kent, with or without a gun, Diana could've killed Trevor, in more ways than either one of you know. If you love her, which it seems you do, you best understand and accept that about her. Diana is more than you used to know and less than she should be. In time, the two will balance out. For now," she turned toward the door, "I have a few words for Steve Trevor."

Annoyed, and frankly, just pissed the hell off, Phillipus wasted no time laying in to the man of her ire.

"What in the hell were you thinking, Trevor?" Hands on hips, she didn't wait for the stunned man to reply. "I told you to not disturb Diana. I told you to wait for my return, but under no circumstances were you to enter her room."

The man looked like death warmed over. Good.

"Manny," Phillipus said, "return to your post, and when I throw Trevor's ass out of here, make sure he doesn't return."

Appearing none too comfortable with being placed between his immediate supervisor and Phillipus, Manny nodded and moved with an astonishing quickness for a man so large, crisply closing the door behind him when he exited.

"You don't give orders to my people. You overstep, Phillipus."

She did laugh then. Steve Trevor had nerves and arrogance to spare.

She stepped closer.

"Let me remind you of a few things, Trevor. Diana created three levels of security." Using her fingers, she ticked them off as she spoke. "The first level is the obvious brawn, men like Manny. They guard Wayne Manor and Wayne Industries, buildings and property. They are the front men, huge and imposing and a great visual threat. You," she pointed one long finger in his chest, "are in charge of them except when I'm on the scene." She raised a second finger. "Level two are Diana's shadow guards. That would be me and the Furies. We are voiceless, faceless, sightless. We blend in with the crowd, going places where your bruisers cannot. We are her vanguard. And lest you forget, Shayera and Zatanna belong to me. They are only on loan to you."

Phillipus took one more step, placing her nose-to-nose with Trevor. "Level three is what Dinah and I like to refer to as Wonder Woman." She pointed her thumb over her shoulder and to the bedroom behind her. "If you haven't already figured it out, that would be the woman who almost put a bullet through you. The woman who I told you to not disturb because I knew what would happen if you did."

Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from her, his hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing.

"I didn't know she slept with a gun under her pillow."

"It wasn't for you to know." And she wouldn't compromise Diana's privacy by divulging more of her secrets. "That's for me to know. You shouldn't even be here. Manny is on door duty tonight."

"I was worried about her. Metropolis is not safe for Diana. You know that."

"So you thought to protect her by creeping into her bedroom while she slept?"

"Like I said; I just wanted to make sure she was okay. I needed to see for myself."

"And when you opened the door and saw that she was safe and sleeping, that wasn't enough?"

He didn't answer, but his face held the truth.

"Diana's a temptation you've allowed to compromise your perspective and good sense. You shouldn't be here, and you damn sure should not have gone into her room while she slept."

Phillipus wondered if, after tonight's incident, Diana would allow Trevor to remain as Head of Wayne Security. It would be a shame to lose such a valuable asset, but his actions tonight put even that into question. He jeopardized not only Diana's physical safety but her emotional shields as well.

"For as much as Diana knows how to kill and would've shot you if I hadn't stopped her, she would never be able to live with herself if she actually did. And that, Trevor, is why I am here, to prevent her from doing something she thinks she wants to do. If some bastard is bad enough to get past your guys, go through Diana's Furies and her General, then Diana would have no choice but to protect herself by any means necessary. Short of that, killing, even justified, would destroy her. It's my job to make sure she's never put into that situation."

The way Trevor was staring at Diana's open bedroom, with longing and jealousy, Phillipus knew he hadn't heard a thing she'd just said. This little bullshit love triangle he was insisting on maintaining was not going to end well.

"So, I guess you're just going to let Kent stay in there with her but you'll kick me out?"

"Reality check, Trevor, Kent saved your life, because Diana damn sure wasn't listening to me."

What she didn't say was that Clark Kent had also risked his life when he'd grabbed Diana off him, clearly thinking more of her safety than Trevor's.

Glancing at the television that played in the background, Phillipus frowned. Steve Trevor and his foolishness had made her miss _Secrets of the Dead: Amazon Warrior Women._ She'd been trying to catch that documentary for the longest time.

Feeling no shame in smacking the man down with the truth, Phillipus added, "Besides, she wants him, she loves him."

"She doesn't—"

"Go home, Steve. Just. Go. Home."

She found the cell phone he'd laid down when he'd arrived and tossed it to him. Then she moved to the door and opened it. Manny hopped up from his chair, expectantly.

"See Mr. Trevor to the elevator, please Manny. Makes sure he gets on."

Manny nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Looking dejected but not defeated, Trevor spun on his heels, walking towards the steps instead of the elevator.

She didn't care, as long as he left. Maybe the twenty flights down would help him cool off and give him time to think. Although, Phillipus admitted after closing and locking the door, she doubted Steve had taken anything away from tonight other than the fact that Clark Kent was where he wanted to be – in Diana's bedroom, holding her.

On soundless, bare feet, Phillipus approached Diana's bedroom and looked inside. As expected, Clark still held Diana, but they were sitting in the chair in the corner, Diana on Clark's lap, head on his shoulder, eyes closed.

Reaching for the handle, Phillipus wordlessly closed the door and walked away.

She would wait the two hours for Manny's replacement to arrive before she went to the second bedroom and got a few hours of sleep. Diana would be fine. As long as Clark was with her, she would be fine.

**Part 2**

Clark sought a calm he didn't feel, couldn't easily find and claim. _Damn Trevor. Damn the asshole to hell. _And if Diana hadn't been Clark's primary concern, he could've allowed his fists to take Trevor straight to the hot and fiery place.

Clark kissed the top of Diana's head. The trembling had ceased about ten minutes after Phillipus had so kindly closed the door and given them a bit of privacy. He appreciated her cool thinking earlier, appreciated she seemed to understand how thoroughly Steve Trevor had screwed up tonight.

For a moment there, when Clark had seen the woman's face drop with fear and dart into the hotel room, he'd thought the worst. Diana had warned him, had told Clark she wasn't safe while the men who'd shot and killed Bruce were still free. And while Clark believed her, he didn't share her level of concern or urgency. After all, it had been three years. Surely if the men still wanted to do her harm, they would've already done so.

But then there had been Phillipus, a woman he'd only met once at the Fourth of July celebration. Diana had introduced her as a friend and nothing more, but the woman's cool, controlled bearing had told Clark she was so much more than a simple friend. So when Clark had seen the concern in her eyes, his own fear welled up, shot through him, and had him bolting after her.

And when he burst through Diana's bedroom door, for an instant, for an indescribable, heart wrenching second, he only saw the woman he loved, wearing a sheer, white negligee astride a man on sheets rumpled from . . . But no, that hadn't been it at all. The man . . . Trevor had been fully dressed and as pale and deathly rigid as a corpse. It was then Clark had realized what he was actually witnessing and the magnitude of what was going on, Phillipus words about a gun slowly registering, even though the weapon was shielded from him by Diana's body.

Thinking only of Diana and not the jerk who didn't belong in her private quarters, Clark did the only thing he could think of—he got Diana the hell away from Steve Trevor. He supposed he should've given more thought to Trevor's safety, but that was his responsibility not Clark's.

"You scared the shit out of me."

"I scared myself." Her voice was thin and weak but at least she was cognizant. She hadn't been for too many minutes. "I thought . . . I thought . . ."

"Shh, I know what you thought. It's okay."

"No it isn't. I could've killed him. I was going to kill him."

And if she had, it would've served the presumptuous bastard right, not that a dead man could have regrets and not that Clark truly wanted to see Trevor dead. But a good old-fashioned Smallville ass whopping was definitely in order, which, the next time he saw Trevor, Clark just might serve up.

"He shouldn't have been in here." And Clark had no idea why he was, but one thing he did know – _Diana did not invite him to her room or her bed._ "I'm going to have to have a few words with your Head of Security."

"I don't need you going all alpha male on me, Clark. Just allow me to handle Steve."

"You can handle him all you want. I'm still going to pull the jerk up about tonight. And when it comes to you, Diana, I'll be as alpha male as I need to be."

She sighed. "I don't need the two of you going at each other. It's beneath you both."

Clark thought about that for a moment then realized she was absolutely wrong.

"Kicking Trevor's ass is not beneath me. Staying silent when another man thinks it's okay to enter your private room when you're asleep and nearly naked, _is _beneath me. Call me want you want, Diana, just don't ask me to do nothing. I told you, I'm in this. All the way, baby."

He softened his voice, not wanting to argue with her. She didn't need that. No, what she needed was to sleep. Picking her up as he stood, Clark walked to Diana's bed and gently deposited her in the center.

"You're going to go back to sleep, I'm going to make sure you get all the rest you require."

She shook her head, appearing far too vulnerable for Clark's liking. "I rarely sleep well, Clark. Nightmares," she admitted.

Ah, he should have known. It made perfect sense. Who wouldn't suffer from nightmares after what she'd been through? No matter. Diana would sleep and Clark would stay with her, battling any bad dreams that dared to attack her.

Beginning with his tennis shoes, Clark began removing his clothing.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to sleep in my clothes, Diana." He tossed his shirt then his pants into the chair they'd just vacated.

"I mean why are you getting undressed here? You can't stay with me. I told you, I have nightmares."

"And? I'm missing your point?"

She looked beautifully flustered and far too tired for the protest she wanted to put forth. She wouldn't win, even if she weren't as exhausted as she looked. Diana wasn't the only stubborn one in the room.

"Clark," she began in a sad, beseeching tone, "I am so emotionally high maintenance. You have no clue. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't even want me."

"And I guess you think I would be better off with Lois?"

"Yes, someone normal, safe, and sane."

Those three words sooo did not describe his ex-wife, which just showed how little Diana knew.

"But I want you."

She flopped onto the bed, her too thin, too short, too sexy nightgown riding up enticingly high.

Clark focused on her face, her eyes, and not the body he wanted to cover with his own.

"And I have no idea why. There's nothing special about me."

He sat down beside her. A little pissed off she couldn't see her own worth.

"There's so much that's special about you, Diana, your courage and spirit for one. Your intelligence and business acumen for another. Your giving and loving nature for a third. You're sweet and kind but also fierce. You're loyal and gracious and you treated my son with patience and understanding. For C.J., it was love at first sight."

Clark laid down beside Diana, and pulled her until her head rested on his bare, wide chest.

"I love you too, you know."

"You can't love me. I'm too messed up to love."

"You've had an emotional day so I'm going to ignore what you just said. We'll have this discussion later. For now, just go to sleep. We'll leave the light on. Alright?"

"I won't sleep. And if I do, I'll dream of bad men."

He hugged her tight. "They can't hurt you."

"They already have."

"And now you wish to hurt them?"

She snuggled in deeper, burrowing her face in his chest and closing her eyes.

Clark knew he would get nothing more from Diana tonight. And he didn't wish to. She wasn't in the right frame of mind to think clearly or to listen to a perspective other than her own. And she also wasn't ready to accept his love or admit to her own feelings for him.

But some things had to be pushed, had to be put out there for Diana to grab on to and believe in.

So he said in a low but serious voice, "I love you, Diana. I never stopped. And one day you'll admit that you love me, too."

She didn't move, didn't as much as stir. But Clark knew she heard him, that his message had gotten through.

When the morning came, he still held her. No nightmares had come. None had dared. And when she smiled up at him, through thick lashes, Clark knew she'd accepted his declaration as truth, as fact.

So he took a chance and jumped into the deep end of the pool. Rolling Diana onto her back, Clark claimed her mouth . . . .

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	34. Chapter 33: New Genesis

**Chapter 33: New Genesis**

**Metropolis, Hilton Hotel & Resort**

Diana knew instantly when Clark finally drifted off to sleep. His hold on her waist loosened just a tad and the soft sound of snoring drifted down her hair and settled into a lost but unexpectedly unleashed memory. Many memories about her time with Clark were slowly, effortlessly rising to the surface. Waters from the ocean's depth that was her mind could no longer be contained, could no longer be appeased with anything but total release, absolute freedom.

And it was beginning to overrun her mind, seeping into other parts of her body. _Like my heart. _But the dams were buckling, slowly caving in on themselves, a last defense that once gone would leave Diana vulnerable. _Like before._

But was vulnerability such an awful prospect? And was vulnerability, on some level, the price of loving someone else and of being loved in return? Diana knew it to be, yet the thought of opening herself to Clark so fully was a risk she feared, a leap into the abyss of faith she didn't know if she could make.

Yet Clark had already made that leap of faith, she reminded herself. _And now he wants me to make it with him. _To a certain extent, Diana already had. But she hadn't totally embraced the free fall; her wings not completely open, allowing her to fly, to soar. _And he says he loves me._

The admission, while unexpected, nearly had Diana bolting for the door. That raised the stakes to a level that was as overwhelming as it was warming. He loved her. She still couldn't believe it, didn't think Clark would ever say those words to her again or feel so undeserving upon hearing them. _Because I can't bring myself to say them back._

And why couldn't she? Why couldn't Diana just let go and enjoy falling in love with Clark Kent all over again? Why couldn't she be just a woman and he just a man? It should be that simple. But it wasn't. Very little in Diana's life was simple.

Yet she did want, she did desire more . . . him. And perhaps one-day simplicity would return and the wings she'd once known would expand and lift her above the Gale force winds that threatened to hold her captive, to keep her prisoner in their mighty talons.

So when the nightmare came, as Diana knew it would, she held tightly to Clark and willed it to go away. And when he returned her embrace, kissing her forehead and saying, "Nothing will harm you as long as I'm here," the wraiths receded, slithering into the recesses of her mind. Once there, Diana slammed the door behind them and locked it, wishing and praying that, for once, there they would remain.

Then she smiled into Clark's chest, feeling safer than she had since Bruce had tucked her in for the night and promised to see her in the morning, Bruce, who Diana had loved and mourned. Bruce, who had run out of his library, not stopping to retrieve the very gun she'd held to Trevor tonight because he was thinking of only protecting Diana and his unborn child. Bruce, who had died the way he lived—loving, forceful, fearless. _My Dark Knight. _

But Bruce was gone and Diana remained. And while she mourned her deceased husband, knew she always would. Diana was no longer in love with him. No, that kind of love had waned in time, slowly and painfully but inevitably.

And what it left behind was a void, or so Diana had thought until Clark Kent reentered her life. Now, however, she wondered if what it left behind was space. _Space to love another?_

She didn't know, or perhaps she did but was too afraid, too unsure of her future to admit to such a truth—to herself or another.

To Diana's surprise and relief, the door remained locked, keeping the wraiths in and her mind free to dream of better things—_like Brina and grass made of marshmallows_.

Upon waking, the first sensation Diana felt was a warm body holding her. Eyes still closed, Diana fought against the déjà vu moment that had eased into her consciousness. _Another morning. Another set of arms. _She recalled that morning she'd awaken beside Bruce all too well, first thinking it was Clark who'd held her, perhaps even whispering his name in her sleepy delirium. Then reality had come smashing in, reminding Diana of who was comforting her and why. _Then I did the unthinkable, the unforgivable._

She opened her eyes, lifted them and found Clark awake and gazing down at her. He was unaccountably handsome and his words of love ping ponged around in her head. So she smiled at him, feeling well rested, safe, and yes . . . loved.

He didn't return her smile, but his eyes did darken. The irises shifting from cornflower blue to a luminescent ultramarine. Then he was lifting up and over her, his large frame and steady hands guiding Diana onto her back. Just as swiftly, Clark's mouth was on hers.

Gentle yet firm, Diana immediately knew this was more than a good morning kiss, more than the kisses they'd shared thus far. No, this kiss ringed bells and set fires, waged wars and commanded armies. This kiss, this hot, demanding mingling of lips and tongues was meant to obliterate senses, heighten desire, and annihilate all opposing barriers.

And for seconds, maybe even dizzying minutes, Diana sank into the kiss, reveled in the power and wantonness of it.

Wrapping her arms around him, Diana opened her mouth more, granting Clark all the access he wanted, was demanding. And he wasted no time accepting the offer, plunging deep and repeatedly, stroking and sucking and milking moan after moan from her.

The abyss beckoned, crooning a ballad of sexual healing. And Diana so needed healing, so wanted to abandon caution and good judgment in exchange for selfish, even reckless pleasure in Clark's tempting arms, masterful mouth.

One hand drifted to a thigh, massaging, moving in an up and down motion that had Diana sinking her teeth into Clark's neck and biting in a spot she instinctively recalled brought him immeasurable pleasure.

He moaned.

She bit him again then gentled it with a lick then a kiss. Her body betrayed her, swamped as it was with denied craving, repressed need, her female system in a state of overload from Clark's carnal assault.

The hand crept higher. And higher. And higher. Reaching the juncture of her sex, the V of her thighs, Clark stroked the thin layer of her white panties.

One finger.

Two.

Three.

Her silk panties offered no resistance, but her mind did snap into place. The delayed light of warning began to blink—incessant and fire engine red.

With reluctance, Diana grabbed Clark's wrist.

The probing fingers stopped, and Diana's body swore vengeance against her mind, her conscience.

"What's wrong?"

Sliding from beneath him, Diana sat up. "I can't do this. I shouldn't be doing this."

Clark, on his side now, kissed her back through the slinky nightgown. "Why not?" He kissed her again, working his way from her waist, up her back and to her shoulders until he was sitting beside her, both of their legs over the foot of the bed, their feet caressing the lush beige carpet.

Thinking back to that morning with Bruce ten years ago, Diana couldn't stop the fresh wave of guilt. She'd made the wrong decision back then, had wound up hurting herself and Bruce. And, from the expression on Clark's face when she'd admitted to sleeping with Bruce on the heels of their breakup, Clark as well. Diana did not want to look back on this morning with regret or guilt.

Already feeling guilty for accepting Clark's overture and returning it full measure, to only call a halt to the growing intimacy, Diana didn't dare meet Clark's eyes. She had no desire to see the disappointment there.

"Is it too soon?"

Yes. Maybe. Hell, she didn't know.

"It's more than that."

"Look at me, Diana."

"No."

He lifted her chin and forced her eyes to his. The disappointment she'd expected to see wasn't there, but the love he'd professed to her the night before was.

"When will you understand that you can trust me?"

"I do trust you." _It's me I don't trust . . . or the future. _"I don't want to mess this up. I don't want us to make love now to only discover later that we made a huge mistake."

"Make love, huh, not sex?" Pushing her hair off a shoulder, Clark kissed her neck, lingering and pressing the words of, "I like the sound of that," into the heat he so easily enflamed. "I want that so much, Diana." Another kiss. "To make love to you." Kiss. "For hours and hours."

If it weren't for the memory of holding a gun to Steve's chest last night and how close she'd come to killing her friend, Diana would've given in to Clark and her body. Yet she did and she couldn't. _Not yet. _

"I don't yet deserve you."

That stopped his exploring mouth. He lifted his head, eyes registering confusion.

"My journey, remember? Until it's complete, I can't come to you the way that I am. You deserve better . . . and so do I."

Around the new and improved Clark Kent, Diana felt unclean. She didn't want to soil him, didn't want to infect him with her darkness. As it was, Clark had seen a side of her she'd wished he'd never known, and had laid down a threat to Steve she knew he would make good on. Diana didn't wish any of that ugliness on him. But if they made love now, if they crossed that line, there would be no going back. _For either of us. _

"You want to wait? Like we did during the first two summers we dated?"

She hadn't thought of it like that. "Yes, like then. We waited until the time was right. It's important that this time is right. Perfect."

"You know, Diana," Clark said, leaning in and kissing her lips, "we didn't go all the way during those summer months but we still managed to have quite a bit of fun."

Ahh, yes, how could she have forgotten those nights when she'd crept from her room and into his? She'd learned so much about her body, her likes and dislikes . . . _and his_.

The kiss deepened, her way of accepting his terms. And then that wonderfully, wandering hand was back, this time on her hip, slinking up and under her nightgown. Finding her chest, Clark began to play, stroking first one breast then the other.

A nipple.

The other.

Both.

Then his hand moved south, thumbing her bellybutton and then the spot right above it.

Diana stilled then tore her mouth from his.

Clark grazed the spot again and then again, his touch more curious than sensual.

"What is this?" He thumbed the upbraided skin again as he asked the question.

"You know, now stop touching it." She had forgotten. Dear god, how had Diana forgotten?

Clark's hand remained where it was. The arousal of only a moment ago replaced by the same look she'd seen last night when he spoke of having "a talk" with Steve. She didn't like it then and she disliked it even more now.

"Let me see."

Appalled by his request and a little frightened by the anger rolling off him, Diana tried to pull away. But Clark was having none of it. His other hand came up to her waist, pinning her in place.

"Let me."

She shook her head. No way. Diana had shown her scar to no one. Not Hippolyta. Not Donna. No one. And she wouldn't begin with Clark. Clark, the Boy Scout who wanted to be a part of her plan, Clark, who was her light, her joy, her goodness. She couldn't share her pain with him, open that dark door and let him in.

"No."

"Trust me."

How could she? Her walls had been good at hiding her internal scars. But this one, the scar that ran the breadth and depth of her heart and soul, was the center, the core, the Genesis of all the others. A physical wound that had closed but never healed.

"Trust me." A pleading whisper. "Let me in. Share your pain with me. You don't have to carry it alone. I'm here, Diana. I'll always be here for you."

Tears began to fall, and by the time he said, "I love you," she was lying on her back, eyes closed, heart pounding.

Inch by inch, Clark slid her nightgown upward until it bunched just under her breasts. With a single finger, he glided over the scar, the bullet wound.

"And your back?"

Diana knew what he was asking. Clark wanted to know if the bullet had gone straight through, leaving not only an entrance wound but an exit wound as well.

She nodded.

He swore – foul and with venom.

More tears fell.

Soft lips kissed her - her scar, the home to pain and a child's death. Another kiss. Worshipful and indomitably tender. Then wetness, drops on her stomach, her Genesis. _Tears._

"I'm so sorry for what that bastard did to you, what he stole from your body, your life."

So was Diana, more than she could ever express.

"I understand you better now. Your drive. Your caution. Your strength."

She opened tear blurry eyes. "Do you?" Their eyes met, Clark's as watery as her own. "I won't stop. I can't."

"If I were you, neither could I."

Clark kissed her stomach again.

Lower.

Sensual.

Erotic.

And when he removed her panties, his warm mouth going to her sex, Diana knew, without a doubt, that Clark Kent was her New Genesis.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	35. Chapter 34: Man Down

**Chapter 34: Man Down**

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

**Part 1**

Diana had given herself two weeks to prepare for this moment. Watching as Steve entered her office and take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, Diana realized fourteen days hadn't nearly been enough. The shock and mortification of having almost killed the man still weighed heavily on her conscience. As did the anger she'd felt at knowing her friend had violated their friendship in such a way that the betrayal of it had ceased to burn in her heart.

But Diana was an understanding woman, as well as a forgiving one. And until three months ago, Steve Trevor had never given her reason to doubt his friendship and loyalty. Even now, looking into his sorrowful, shamed face, Diana still did not question his loyalty. _But a true friend would never do what he did. _

That was the thought that refused to be ignored or overridden by memories of late night business talks and companionable lunches in her office. Or the fact that Steve had given up his post as an FBI agent to come and work for her. _Because he believed in my cause or because that was his way of being close to me?_

Diana sighed, wishing, not for the first time, that things did not always have to change. But life, as she well knew, was nothing but a series of changes, small to large seismic shifts that defined everyone's life.

"Thank you for seeing me."

"Thank you for coming."

Those were the first words they'd spoken since the morning after what an unsmiling Phillipus had referred to as, "Trevor's royal clusterfuck."

Having no desire to discuss the night's event with her Head of Security, Diana had called Steve on his cell and informed him he was overdue for a vacation. Knowing Diana as well as he did, Steve did not argue with the informal administrative leave she'd commanded him to take. Nor did she wait for the apology she heard him begin. Hanging up on the man was the only thing that had prevented Diana from firing him outright, without benefit of a cooling off and thinking period. _For us both._

Two weeks later, they had had that, and now was the moment of truth. For both their sakes', Diana hoped Steve had a good explanation.

"I, umm, I wouldn't blame you if you decided to end my contract."

"That thought had occurred to me." Diana reached for the crystal glass to her right, lifting it to her lips and drinking the chilled water within. Placing the glass back on the coaster, she eyed Steve to see his reaction to her statement. There was a nearly imperceptible wince, then a nod.

"Why haven't you?"

Good question. Clark thought she should; although, he would never presume to tell her how to handle her business or personal affairs. But he'd made his opinion clear. "You can't trust a jealous man, Diana. He's liable to say or do anything to get what he wants."

Phillipus, however, never one to mince words, had echoed much of what Diana had been feeling. "I've never known Steve Trevor to do something so stupid before. He's normally so level-headed, the go-to-guy with the moral standards of an ancient, honorable soldier, but sometimes, my friend, even the most honorable of soldiers turn rogue when someone stands between them and their heart's desire."

While Diana would never refer to herself as Steve's "heart's desire," she would have to be a fool to no longer see the depth of Steve's feelings for her. She wished she had noticed earlier. Perhaps then she could have put an end to them before they'd fully developed. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty, and all Diana and Steve could do was address the here and now.

"Because you were there for me when I was too weak and vulnerable to be there for myself," she said, answering his question as honestly as she could. "You offered me protection when I was afraid to death those men would return, perhaps hurting Martha in their attempt to get to me."

And he had been a bulwark when Diana was most in need. For that alone, Diana had known she couldn't just dismiss Steve without benefit of a face-to-face conversation. He deserved much more from her than that, even if today they decided it was best for them to part ways.

But Diana was no longer that fragile shadow of a woman she'd been when they'd first met in the hospital three years ago. She was much stronger now—physically and emotionally.

"I grew to respect and like you – a valuable friend."

"Friend," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue as if the taste was bitter fruit. "Are you positive that's all I am to you, Diana, just a trusted, valued friend?"

After what had happened in her hotel room, the question had to cost him. If nothing, Steve Trevor was a proud man, one too smart not to know when a battle had been lost. Yet here he sat, on an emotional battlefield with bodies of truth surrounding him, gun empty but bravely . . . hopelessly trying to take the hill. A hill that would never, could never be his for the taking, the claiming.

"I can never be more than your friend, Steve. And after what happened two weeks ago, I even question that."

"I didn't mean. I never meant . . ." He struggled for the right words; his face reddening with what Diana assumed was embarrassment, perhaps even frustration. "You know how I feel about you visiting Metropolis. That's Luthor's lair. You being in his town would make it so much easier from him to get to you, a mouse in a snake's pit."

And that was one of the problems with their relationship. Steve still thought of her as a helpless "mouse," to be devoured whole by the big bads of the world.

"Like I told Phillipus, I wanted to see for myself that you were all right."

"I was with my general, which should've been enough to reassure you. There was no need for you to travel to Metropolis when a phone call would've sufficed."

This was getting them nowhere. If she allowed, Steve would rationalize away his actions, hiding them behind his position as Head of Wayne Security.

"Your natural overprotective nature may have led you to drive to the hotel."

Diana crossed her legs and considered the man who, despite everything, still held a special place in her heart. He was handsome, brave and would make any woman a fine mate, a faithful and loving husband. And someday Diana hoped he would find the woman to share his life with. A woman he could love and who would love him in return, giving him children and many years of wedded bliss. _But that woman isn't me. Will never be me._

"But it was the man, not the bodyguard who entered my bedroom without permission. Who knelt on my bed and touched my shoulder."

And the fear that one touch evoked had permeated her entire being, dredging up bodily memories and setting off her fight-or-flight response. Diana had decided to fight. _And almost shot and killed the remorseful man before me._

"I could have killed you."

He looked down at his lap then back to Diana. "I know. I'm sorry to have put you in that situation. I know I was wrong for going into your room. I heard a sound and thought you were having one of your nightmares. I just wanted to wake you, to shake you from your bad dream. That was all, Diana. I promise. It was nothing more than that. You were dreaming, mumbling in your sleep."

They'd shared enough hotel rooms for Steve to know of her nightmares. Yet he'd never once tried to wake her. Then again, maybe he had. Whenever Diana slept, she always locked her door. But lately, with Phillipus, she'd begun to simply close the door instead, trusting her general as much as she trusted Dinah, with her safety. So perhaps Steve had tried on other occasions to enter her room to only find her door locked. Yet it hadn't been locked that night two weeks ago.

"I thought I heard something coming from your room, so I went to the door. I tried the knob and it turned. You were crying in your sleep. I hated to see you that way. Phillipus was on door duty, waiting for Manny to return from the lobby. I just wanted to wake you, Diana. That was all. I know I've been acting like a jealous jerk lately. And I won't pretend that I think you would be better off with me instead of Kent. But I would never do anything to harm you. I . . ."

Steve's eyes held Diana's, the sentence unfinished but the message clear. He loved her. She wished he didn't.

Diana also wished she didn't feel as if her friend, her Head of Security had just lied to her. But she did, and the thought caused her deep pain.

She wanted to push further, to have him swear that his words were truthful. But there was no point to either. People lied all the time and for various reasons, and Steve Trevor was as prone to telling a lie as any other. He was not an infallible man, and didn't deserve the pedestal Diana had obviously placed him upon. He was but a man. _Men make mistakes._ And how many men easily admitted to his mistakes? _Not many._

And did it really matter as long as Steve understood that they could never be anything more than colleagues and friends? Diana's mind told her his lie meant a great deal, but her soft heart reminded her that true friends forgave. Yet another conflict Diana could do without.

"So, ah, should I go to my office and pack my things?"

Contrition did not suit Steve Trevor, although he deserved every bit of penance. And more, if Clark had his way.

"Friend or not, Steve, I'll not have another incident. I need to be able to trust my friends."

"You _can_ trust me."

Oh, how she ached to believe him. Yet time was always the great tester of trust.

Diana pointed to a flash drive to Steve's left. "The drive contains Talia's recent comings and goings, including pictures and cell phone logs. Go through the information and let me know if you find anything interesting."

Steve picked up the flash drive, fisting it in his large hand then stood, his shoulders straighter than they'd been when he'd first entered Diana's office.

"Thank you."

She didn't want his thanks. All Diana had ever wanted from him was his trust, his loyalty. Steve had hers, yet Diana was no longer sure if she had his.

"Come back when you're done."

He smiled and nodded. "Will do. Maybe we could have lunch? My treat."

This was the Steve she knew, the Steve who could make her smile by giving her one of his own. Perhaps it had been all a misunderstanding. If Diana had learned anything from Clark these past weeks, it was that hope was not a futile endeavor and that faith often prevailed.

"Mexican?" She asked.

"Mexican it is then. See you around noon."

The door closed behind Steve Trevor.

Diana stood and walked to the large window that overlooked the Gotham skyline. She looked out but saw nothing before her, nothing but foreboding darkness where morning sunshine should be.

Hand going to the sudden pain in her stomach, Diana turned and stumbled to her desk. Something was very wrong.

Horribly.

Horribly.

Wrong.

**Part 2**

**Metropolis, Clark Kent Residence**

Balancing two grocery bags in one hand, Clark unlocked the door to his house and entered. Flipping the bolt lock then the lock on the door, Clark carried one bag in each hand and walked from the foyer, down a short hall and into his kitchen.

In five minutes, the bags were unpacked. He had all the ingredients for a homemade meal. All he needed were flowers, soft music, and his best and only girl.

While the food was cooking, Clark would run down the street and pick up a nice flower arrangement, and the music was already taken care of. He smiled. Clark had been wanting to cook for Diana for the longest time. Normally they went out or ordered in, but tonight he wanted to remind her of his great cooking skills. And he'd learned so many new dishes since he'd last cooked for her, integrating Kryptonian dishes into his repertoire.

Clark washed his hands, thinking on the past two weeks. They had been wonderful. The only thing that would've made them better was Diana confessing her love to him. _And Steve being around for me to knock his block off. _But Diana had sent the man away on a forced vacation. And Clark couldn't help but speculate if she did that to keep Clark from "going alpha," as she called it.

Even Steve, however, couldn't spoil Clark's good mood. No matter Diana's claim, all that was missing from their physical relationship was intercourse. When she had allowed Clark to orally pleasure her, the only thing he could think of to prevent them both from crying and dwelling on what had happened to her, he had made love to her with his mouth. Them not having intercourse was a hair Diana was finely splitting.

And her moaning, writhing response to his probing tongue and fingers weren't that of a woman emotionally detached from the man doing the pleasuring. Nor was the way she moved against his mouth or ran her fingers through his hair, shifting his head just where she wanted him. And neither was the way she cried out her release, and then tasting herself on his lips and tongue when she pulled him up her body for a drawn-out, thankful kiss.

Then they had fallen asleep, Clark once again holding her, keeping Diana's demons away. And when it was time for her to get up and dress for her outing with his mother, her kiss goodbye felt more like she was welcoming him home.

They'd seen each other only twice since that morning, Diana coming to Metropolis both times, visiting with Martha and C.J. Thankfully, there had been no other "beyond the grave" messages. C.J. had been his normal five-year-old self, and he and Diana had spent time together talking and playing video games. Which, to Clark's surprise, Diana knew an amazing amount about, which, she assured him, came with being "Aunt Di" to John and Mari's daughter.

Knowing he had hours before Diana was due at his place, Clark decided to get in a couple of hours of writing. He was only halfway through the Wayne biography, and really needed to set up a couple of more interviews with Martha Kent. _I should call her while it's on my mind._

Opening the door to his office, Clark went inside. He booted up his computer, sat down, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed Wayne Manor. After a brief conversation with Mr. Pennyworth, Martha was promptly put on the line.

As they spoke, Clark swore he heard something downstairs. Glancing at the time on his laptop, Clark knew it was too early for his mother to visit. Besides, she normally called before dropping by.

"Is something wrong, dear?" Mrs. Wayne asked. "You suddenly went quiet. Is everything okay with you?"

Clark had indeed gone silent. He could've sworn he heard footsteps.

"Hold on Mrs. Wayne. I think my mother or ex-wife has paid me an unexpected visit."

"Of course, dear. I'll be here when you return."

Phone still in hand, Clark crept to his office door, staying as silent as he could, questioning the probability that Martha or Lois would stop by unannounced on a Thursday morning when they were all due to have dinner together tomorrow night, in celebration of Lois signing a popular science fiction writer.

Backing away from the door, Clark held the phone to his mouth, speaking as low as possible. "Listen to me very carefully, Mrs. Wayne. I believe there's an intruder in my home. I need you to call the Metropolis Police Department." He rattled off his address to the shocked older woman.

"Oh my lord, I should call Diana."

The last thing he wanted was for Diana to know some creep had broken into his home. Clark was just thankful it was during the day while C.J. was at camp instead of at night when the boy would be asleep in his bed.

"Fine. Just tell her I'm fine and not to worry." As if she would believe that. _She'll probably have one of those hulking Wayne guys here within the hour, less if she uses her helicopter._

"Be careful, Clark. Please be careful."

He would.

Sliding his phone into his pants pocket, Clark looked around his office for a weapon. Grabbing the only thing that could possibly be used for protection, Clark lifted a T-ball bat he'd told C.J. a thousand times to keep out of his office.

It was sturdy and better than nothing.

Knowing he should lock himself in his office and wait for the police to arrive, Clark did something he knew he shouldn't.

He stepped into the hall.

And heard the sound again.

Louder.

Closer.

He turned toward the steps.

A man in a black mask stood on the top landing.

Knife in hand.

Beady eyes stared at Clark, gray and with intent that had nothing to do with a quick grab and retreat. The man had something else in mind.

Gripping the bat, and knowing there was nowhere Clark could go to get away from the masked man, he prepared himself to do what he must.

The masked man laughed, his bulky frame and flabby gut hung over his belt, shook with something only he found funny.

Clark didn't move.

In a blink of an eye, the masked man attacked. Running toward Clark faster than he thought possible, the man slammed into him, sending Clark hard to the floor. The bat dropped from his hand, spinning across the wooden floor.

The masked man rose above Clark and plunged the knife into Clark's shoulder, laughing when Clark screamed from the pain. Removing it, the man, clearly intent on killing him, lunged for Clark again, his throat this time.

Clark blocked it with his forearm, the knife cutting deep.

More blood.

No scream this time.

Just anger . . . and the need to defend.

Swinging with the uninjured arm, Clark punched the man in his nose. The masked man's hands went to his nose, the knife still in his right hand and far too close to Clark.

But Clark wasn't about to let the asshole have another go at him. Swinging again, Clark landed another blow, his right ear this time.

The man growled and swore.

Clark struck again, jabbing the man in what he hoped was his kidney.

Then again.

And again.

Until the man began punching him back, trying to ward off Clark's blows with those of his own.

Using all the strength in him, Clark twisted his body and pushed the man off him and to the hardwood floor. Then, with hands he used to hug his soon goodbye this morning, Clark began pounding the masked man, hitting him with all that he had.

His anger.

His fear.

His desperation.

A sharp pain exploded in his stomach, ripping him open.

This wasn't a fight of fists, a fight between equally armed pugilists. It was a fight to the death. The knife jammed into Clark's stomach was testament to that.

The masked man pulled the knife out, his laughter back, but not as loud and confident as before. No, now it held an edge of anger, of frustration.

"I'm going to cut you up into nice little pieces and send it to your girlfriend." He pushed Clark off him and down to the cool floor. "Maybe a finger." He ran the point of the knife up his thigh and to his crotch. "Or maybe something a bit more _cocky_. Do you think she'd like that? Her very own dildo to play with on those cold and lonely nights." The point of the knife dug into Clark's thigh. "Too bad she won't know where to find the rest of you."

The masked man levered himself above Clark. There was no laugher this time, just those murderous eyes of his staring down at Clark.

Clark closed his eyes; replaying his life in those soul searching seconds it took the man to raise his knife.

Hugging Jonathan and Martha Clark.

Proposing to Diana.

Holding C.J. for the first time.

Finding his birth parents.

Telling Diana he loved her.

Having Diana trust him enough to reveal her deepest pain, her most fragile self.

The whirlpool of memories could not be stopped and neither could the desire to not leave his family. _Not like this. Not another scar for C.J. and Diana. I can't leave Ma. _

Then the T-ball bat was there, in his hand and swinging forcefully at the masked man's head.

Connecting.

Falling.

Then it too dropped, thudding to the ground and rolling away.

Clark was cold, so very cold . . . and tired. _So tired. Maybe I'll just close my eyes and rest for a while. _

So he did.

Clark closed his eyes and drifted off, his battered body lying in a pool of crimson.

And all he could see before the darkness took him was a dark haired, blue-eyed beauty standing over his grave, tears in her eyes, hate and hopelessness in her heart.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	36. Chapter 35: Hiketeia

**Chapter 35: Hiketeia **

**Metropolis, Metropolis University Medical Center**

With a passion that bordered on irrationality, Diana hated hospitals. She disliked the bright lights and shiny floors that gave the false impression of lightheartedness and safety. She abhorred the sound of machines and sirens that heralded either a saved life or a lost soul. She loathed the smell of disinfectants and sanitizers that put one in the mind of cleanliness and sterility, an olfactory distraction that covered the malignant scents of blood, urine, and feces. Most of all, Diana despised the feel of the place, auras of uncertainty, fear, and helplessness comingling into a migraine of the heart.

Put simply, Diana wished she were any place other than where panic and pain had driven her. Yet where else would she be when the one man who held her heart was here? In the place that reminded her of her worst nightmare.

"Please sit down, Lois. You've been pacing for the better part of two hours. Clark will be in surgery for at least another one."

Lois, whose high heels clicked every time she walked, spun to face her former mother-in-law, eyes large, tired, and still wet from the last time she'd run to the bathroom for a quiet, private moment.

"I can't just sit there like the three of you. I have to _do something_."

"And what is it you think you can do by walking back and forth? This family waiting room is comfortable and surprisingly large, but it is just a room, Lois. Besides," Martha said, rubbing one hand over her own tired eyes, "the clacking of your heels is beginning to grate. No offense, but please sit down and be still."

Lois gave a little huff at the uncharacteristic chastisement from Martha Kent and sat.

Diana understood the woman's desire to not sit still, the need to do something. It took everything in Diana to keep her own tense form rooted to the chair. But, unlike Lois Lane, Diana's stillness did not mean she was doing nothing about the situation. True, Diana, like them all in the room, was powerless to control anything that was going on in the operating room. But that still left plenty Diana did have power over, could most definitely do.

Her hand settled over her stomach, the pain from four hours ago still there. A throbbing ache that hadn't diminished since it had first come upon her, nor when she'd received the frantic call from Martha Kent, and not even when her pilot safely landed her and her guards on the hospital's helipad.

Yet the discomfort in her abdomen paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. An agony of the soul she dared not give voice or action to. A hurt she knew too well, made all the more vicious for the guilt attached to the unforgiving sensation.

She had made a terrible miscalculation and Clark had paid the price. Diana had been a fool, giving in to a dream long ago deferred, a happily-ever-after ending that only a naïve girl would latch her romantic hopes to. But that seashell of a dream, the one Clark had so painstakingly excavated, locating it under tons of hard sand and even harsher water, carefully washing it off until it gleaned as fresh and bright as the morning sun over a calm, windless ocean.

_But there is nothing calm or windless about my ocean, my life. And now I've caused Clark to be swept into its torrent, roughly handled and left for dead._

The thought brought a new rush of stomach cramps. Closing her eyes, Diana absorbed the pain, knowing Clark had suffered far worse this morning.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Are you all right, dear?"

Diana opened her eyes then turned to face Martha Wayne. By the time Diana had ordered the plane to be fueled and the pilot placed on stand-by, Martha was at Wayne Industries, summer hat on head, purse in hand, and face set in determined lines. And Diana knew better than to argue with a Wayne. It rarely did any good. Besides, Martha Kent would need a friend to get through almost losing her son. And who better to console her than a woman who had lost her own son, the parallel far too close for any of their liking.

"You've been awfully quiet."

"I've been thinking; that's all, Mom."

Martha's eyes became shrewd. "Do I want to know what you've been thinking about?"

"No."

"Will you tell me if I ask?"

"No."

"Would I like it if I knew?"

"Probably not."

"Would Hippolyta?"

Done with the circular interrogation, Diana stood. "I'll take care of this."

"What does that mean?"

Leaning down, Diana kissed Martha on the cheek and spoke softly, much softer than the harsh reality warranted. "It means exactly that, Mom. I'm going to take care of this, end it once and for all. The way I should have done years ago."

"Don't do anything foolish because of what happened to Clark."

"I won't be foolish. I promise."

No, Diana was done being made the fool, done being the only one playing by the rules. The attack on Clark in his home was the line drawn in the sand. The last line her enemies would ever draw. Now it would be Diana's turn and she wasn't going to waste time drawing pointless lines. Well, if Luthor and Ghul wanted a war, now they would have one. But her way, on Diana's terms, because there was no doubt in her mind that one of those villains had orchestrated Clark's brutal attack. _His attempted murder._

But she would soon know for sure. And when she did . . .

"Does part of you taking care of things have anything to do with those WWF size men showing up at my office and forcing me to go with them?"

Lois had risen; her suspicious eyes all for Diana.

Diana really wanted to ignore the much shorter woman, which was difficult to do since they shared the same space. But, yes, Diana had given her men orders to pick up Lois, C.J., and Martha Kent. She didn't want them learning of Clark's attack from a police officer who didn't know them and was only doing his job. And Lois had wisely decided to not tell her son until Clark was out of surgery and stable. Helena Bertinelli, one of Diana's Furies, along with Jimmy Olsen, were playing babysitters at Martha's home, taking care of C.J.

"Yes, and you and C.J. will stay at Martha's where my men can guard you."

Lois's hands fluttered to her hips, her stance defensive. "Just because you're some big shot tycoon and Clark's girlfriend, that doesn't give you any power over me or my son. When I leave here, I plan to pick up C.J. and take him home with me."

Lois had every right to make decisions for herself and her son, and to take umbrage with Diana's bulldozing of the entire situation. But the woman was way out of her depth, and Diana's patience was running abysmally low.

"My mother-in-law will explain to you what I neither have the patience nor the inclination to do. She will do a much better job than I would because I left all my tact in my office when I literally felt Clark's attack."

Stunned, Lois's hands dropped to her sides. "You _what_?"

"Mom will explain, in that steel wrapped in silk way of hers, that I'm leaving you no choice, that all the Kents are now under my protection, and that you can rant and rave until you're blue in the face, but I will not be moved on this. She will smile and pat your shoulder and say all the right things because that is who she is. But, in the end, she will tell you that the people behind Clark's attack have just become my china shop and I'm the raging bull."

For once, Lois said nothing, just stared, wide-eyed, at Diana as if she were seeing her for the first time. It wasn't a pretty sight, looking into her eyes and having Lois stare back as if the Devil himself was present and in full wrath mode. Then again, Diana's feelings weren't too far from that of wrath. _A deadly sin. Luthor has opened his own Pandora's box and now he will suffer. _

A line in Clark's book came to Diana's mind. _"Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain." _Profound words from a man who had survived his own journey to then nearly die because Diana had yet to fulfill her own. And how could Diana apply such wisdom when Clark Kent was the joy that dwelled within her? _My light that came perilously close to being extinguished. _

Clark's mother stood, stepped between Diana and Lois and hugged her—tender and soothing. She smelled of vanilla, goodness, and distress.

And Diana knew this lovingly peaceful woman had the power to bring Diana to her knees, to recall the fury within, to douse the flame that burned silent but bright.

"Don't," Diana pleaded in a small voice. "Not now, Martha. Don't do this to me now."

But the older woman didn't stop. She just kept hugging Diana the way Clark always did when she was being too cold for reason, too distant for words to reach.

"Someone has to."

"P-please, don't. I need it." Diana hated the tremor she detected in her voice, the crack that was Martha's unconditional love slowly, defiantly breaking through.

"No you don't."

Silence.

Then.

"Yes she does, Martha."

Martha Wayne came up behind Clark's mother and gently encouraged her to release Diana.

With reluctance, she did.

"For now, Diana needs her battle armor. To ask her to lay it down is asking her to unsheathe her heart, making her vulnerable when we all are in most need of her strength, her courage."

"I don't want to lose her to vengeance."

Mom embraced Martha, giving her the hug Diana couldn't return, lest she break down in tears the way Martha and Lois had done earlier. Tears had never done Diana any good; yet she had shed more than her share. _But I haven't cried for Clark. Not a single tear._

"Neither do I. But if we weaken her by our love, our concern, we'll prevent her from finding her own answers. Only she can unlock the mystery of self, and if she doesn't do it now, I fear she never will. Then we would have truly lost her. Remember, Martha, death leaves a heartache no one can heal, but it is love that leaves a memory no one can steal."

Seeing her chance for escape, Diana slipped from the room, only to run into the detective she'd met when she'd first arrived.

"Dr. Wayne."

"Detective Jones."

"I was just coming to speak with Mrs. Wayne."

"Not now."

Detective John Jones of the Metropolis Police Department arched one eyebrow when Diana shifted, placing herself squarely between him and the family waiting room.

He frowned.

Jones seemed to do that every time they spoke, perhaps because he had yet to realize he was not in control of the Clark Kent case. Sure, Detective Jones had a badge, a shiny gold one he wore at his waist, and he even had official authority in the city, but that still didn't mean this was his case. No, it was most definitely not his case. _It's mine._

"You said that thirty minutes ago, Dr. Wayne. Other than Mr. Kent, who is currently unavailable for questioning, Mrs. Wayne is the only witness to the crime."

Martha was barely a witness. True, she'd been on the phone when Clark had heard someone in his home. And, yes, she was the one to call the Metropolis police, but that hardly made her a witness of significance. No, those would be the two patrol officers who'd responded to the emergency call, finding an unconscious and barely breathing Clark and an unconscious masked man with a broken nose and other contusions.

"My mother-in-law is with Mrs. Kent. I'm sure she will make herself available to answer your questions, detective, once we all know Mr. Kent is safely out of surgery and on the mend. Until then, you will have to settle for me."

The detective's frown deepened.

"Just because you're good friends with the Police Commissioner and the Chief of Police, doesn't mean I won't arrest you for obstruction of justice. I will have my questions answered."

"Of course you will, detective, just not now. Do you have no respect for the man's mother? It isn't as if you don't already have a suspect in custody. If I'm not mistaken," and she knew she wasn't, "said suspect is in this very hospital, having his injuries tended to, a police officer outside his door to make sure he doesn't escape. Maybe you should begin your investigation with him."

"I'm not a man who can be handled, Dr. Wayne."

Of course he was, the detective having followed Diana when she purposefully made her way away from the room as they spoke. Now, they were standing in front of a nurse's station.

"I'm only asking for time, which, considering you have the man who stabbed Mr. Kent in custody, you have it to spare. Mrs. Wayne will remain with Mrs. Kent in Metropolis for the foreseeable future. I will personally arrange an interview with her. But not now, Detective Jones."

"You're trying to handle me again."

"No, detective, I only handle matters of business not people."

Detective Jones snorted then looked back at the family waiting room several feet away. "I don't see the difference."

Ah, smart man, probably a very good detective, too. If Diana didn't have quicker and more effective methods of learning the truth, and if Clark weren't the case, she would have no doubt believing Detective Jones would solve any case set before him. But time was of the essence and the case did involve Clark, so no, Jones and his by-the-book procedures simply would not do.

"The difference is in degrees, detective."

Over his shoulder, Diana noticed Clarks' surgeon turn the corner and begin to make his way down the hall. The pain, which she'd been managing as much as the detective, increased, turning her insides into tight coils.

The doctor stopped when he saw Diana and the detective.

Forcing herself to speak beyond the pain, Diana said, "Everyone is in the waiting room." She pointed to the room across the hall. "Please, I would like us all to hear the news at the same time."

A minute later, the doctor was explaining the operation to Diana and the Kents, with Detective Jones also listening in.

According to the doctor, Clark had lost a lot of blood, but no damage had been done to any organs and he was, in time, expected to make a full recovery. For now though, the wounds had been closed, his deep stomach wound however, having required sutures above and below the skin. That bit of news had everyone, except the experienced detective, wincing.

"Mr. Kent will be transported to his recovery room shortly." The doctor looked to Diana. "He'll be placed where you requested. I believe your men are already in place."

"Thank you."

He nodded. "Always a pleasure to return a favor to a woman who's given so much to this hospital. Your donations, Dr. Wayne, have saved lives as well as jobs. Please, let me know if there is anything else you need."

"Thank you."

More thanks of appreciation followed before the surgeon announced he had to prep for another surgery. Martha hugged him, tears of gratified relief in her eyes.

"I'll take you all to Clark's room. He'll still be out of it for a while, but at least Martha and Lois will have a chance to see him." Diana reached into her small purse and pulled out a business card. She gave it to the detective. "Call me tomorrow and I'll have a time and place arranged where you will be able to interview Mrs. Wayne."

Opening the door, Diana ushered the other three women out.

"Still handling, Dr. Wayne."

Without turning, she admitted, "Yes, Detective Jones, that's what I do. See you tomorrow."

Two hours later, Diana had convinced the mothers and Lois to allow Manny to escort them to Martha's house. Helena was still there, and by this time, so would three Wayne Security bodyguards, as capable and imposing as Manny. And there they would remain until Diana gave them other orders.

"Sam, would you please guard the door?" Samuel Winters, Diana's guard whenever she stayed late at Wayne Industries, which was most nights, looked first to her then to the morbidly still man in the bed.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Dr. Wayne, I heard Mr. Kent put up one helluva fight. If that coward hadn't had a knife, I'm sure Mr. Kent would've done more than break the punk's nose and blackened his eyes."

Yes, Clark had put up one hell of a fight. If he hadn't, he would be dead, she knew. They all knew. But Clark Kent was a survivor, an honorable warrior in a world of dishonorable brawlers.

"No, Sam, I don't mind you saying so."

Sam still stared at Clark, with a respect she'd never seen in his eyes before.

"This is bigger than the guy who attacked him, right?"

"Yes."

Sam lifted his eyes to Diana then cracked his knuckles. "Whatever you have planned for taking out the trash, count me and Manny in."

Loyalty and trust.

"I'll remember that. For now, I need you to guard the door until Manny returns."

And when he did, Sam would return, guarding Clark the way he should have been guarded earlier. She would get to the bottom of that too.

"On it."

Sam left, leaving Diana alone with Clark.

She hadn't seen him when he'd first been wheeled into the room, choosing to give Martha and Lois time with him. Not that Martha would have mind Diana's presence, in fact, she nearly dragged her into the room. But Diana wasn't yet ready to see her strong man down; too afraid her heart couldn't absorb more sorrow.

And now, as she gazed upon his bruised, slumbering form, bile laced anger stirred within. Thick gauze covered one forearm, as well as a shoulder. He was pale, except for where he was swollen and black and blue from obvious punches to his face.

Every atom in Diana cried out at seeing him that way, although she knew it could have been far worse. He hadn't died, and for that she was eternally grateful, but it had been a near thing. _But it will never happen again. _

Going to him, but afraid to touch for fear of causing him harm, not knowing what bruises his white and blue hospital gown covered, Diana stood beside Clark's bed and began to speak as if he were awake.

"Ancient Greeks observed a custom called Hiketeia, in which one person supplicated themselves to another in exchange for protection. The supplication does not have to be accepted once offered, but when it is accepted both parties agree to take the contract very seriously."

She raised her hand and held it above his heart, still not daring to touch. "I recite the offer for you Clark, because you cannot do so yourself. I will be your guardian and you my supplicant, just as you've been my guardian and I your supplicant when you offered me your love."

Diana's stomach still ached but not nearly as much as seeing Clark so badly hurt, and knowing she was to blame.

"Diana Prince," she said deliberately, because it was Diana Prince not Diana Wayne who would accept the guardianship, "I am Clark Kent. I offer myself in supplication to you. I come without protection. I come with only a pure heart and free mind, and ask for your protection. With all my heart, with everything I can offer, I beg you, in Zeus' name, who watches over all supplicants, accept my plea."

Lowering her hand, Diana nodded at Clark as if he had indeed asked for her protection, in the way of the ancient Greeks. It was an outdated custom but right now, today, it made an odd kind of sense to Diana.

"I accept your offer. I will be your protector, your guardian. You have my most humble vow."

With one last look, Diana exited Clark's room, only to see her general walking towards her.

"We need to talk, Phillipus. Are the others in Metropolis?"

"All except Barda, but she'll be here soon."

"Good, now tell me all you've learned about Solomon Grundy, the man who was stupid enough to go after _my Clark_."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	37. Chapter 36: Truths

**Chapter 36: Truths**

**Metropolis, Metropolis University Medical Center**

**Part 1**

Diana sat in the passenger seat of Phillipus's silver, Audi Q5 SUV, the luxury vehicle a rare purchase for the economically conservative former Marine. While the hospital's underground garage wasn't busy right now and Phillipus had parked in a remote location with little foot traffic, the tinted windows added an additional layer of security and privacy to their meeting.

"How did you get this?" Diana held her general's cell phone, a picture of an unconscious man with bruises over his face, and a nose packed with gauze, brought a rare smile to Diana. Clark had done that to him. He deserved his wounds and far more. Phillipus would make sure Solomon Grundy reaped all that he'd sowed.

"Does it matter? You give the orders, I make them happen."

She was right. The how didn't really matter to Diana. Phillipus, like all the Furies, came with unique and dangerous skill sets, trade secrets and all that.

"After getting that shot of Quasimodo, I sent the image to Vic. He did his hacking thing and e-mailed me a tentative report."

"So what did he find?"

Diana handed the phone back to Phillipus who dropped it in a cup holder. The woman's memory was near perfect. Once reading or seeing something, there was little Phillipus couldn't recall. So it didn't surprise Diana when Phillipus began speaking, without referring to Victor's e-mail.

"Solomon Grundy is a career criminal. His arrest record goes back to his early twenties. Although, with a little more digging, I'm sure Vic will uncover a juvenile record as well. Anyway, the now forty-year-old Grundy, at seven feet plus and three hundred pounds, is basically a Mack truck for hire. He's a bully in all the ways you can imagine. He's not big on guns, preferring to pretty much beat the shit out of his victims. But he's also been known to use—surprise, surprise—hunting knives."

The picture Phillipus had taken of Grundy was only of the man's face. Diana had no idea the man who'd attacked Clark had been so massive. _Yet Clark had held his own against a seasoned killer. _A strange pride welled in Diana. And if being a stubborn alpha male was what had saved his life . . . well, Diana could muster no feminist complaints about that.

"He's a real piece of work, Di. Grundy plays for keeps, but not much seems to stick to him. He's arrested and witnesses seem to disappear, leaving the police and district attorney no choice but to drop charges and let him go."

"Does he have a gang behind him?"

"I think we both know the type of gang he runs with."

Yeah, Diana had a strong idea who protected men like Grundy. Solomon Grundy, and his ilk, was never the brains. Not that Diana was naïve enough to think killers like Grundy were stupid. They just weren't always the forward thinking, two-steps ahead type. No, that class of criminal fit into the realm of the Lex Luthor and Ra's al Ghul category. A distinguished group of intelligent, vile creatures who knew only how to take, doing whatever they wanted to fulfill their own distorted sense of privilege and entitlement.

"But we don't know that for sure."

"No, but rest assured, I'll find out for you."

Diana was about to ask Phillipus how she planned on getting Grundy out of the hospital without being detected by the police officer guarding his door. Then she thought better of it, unwilling to insult the woman and her stealth and strategic skills. Diana paid Phillipus and the other Furies well to make the impossible possible. She trusted they would find the answers Diana sought. _One way or another. They'll get the job done._

"How are you holding up?" Phillipus asked, swiftly turning the conversation in a different direction and taking Diana off guard, which, she knew, Phillipus did on purpose. "You've been abnormally calm. Scary calm, if you catch my meaning."

"How can I not catch your meaning, Phillipus, you just called me 'scary'?"

She shrugged. "That wasn't exactly what I said, but okay, you do have a weird silent but deadly thing going on. It makes perfect sense, I get it. Your man was nearly killed and you want the men responsible."

She did, but it was more than that. Luthor and Ghul were, quite literally, menaces to society. They needed to be dealt with, and, without arrogance, Diana knew she, the League and her Furies were the only ones capable of getting the job done. The fact that they were likely the ones who hired Grundy to kill Clark just upped the urgency of her plan. A plan, she had been dissuaded from implementing by her mother and Donna. And because of her waddling on the issue, she'd given her enemies another target on which to lock, an innocent who had the misfortune of falling for and loving the wrong woman.

"I want them all to pay, to suffer as I've suffered, as they made Bruce, Brina, Clark and so many others suffer."

Diana shifted, seeking comfort in a leather seat that was built for comfort. But Diana knew her unease had nothing to do with the seat under her, but the emotions roiling within her conflicted soul.

"Hippolyta raised Donna and me to believe that hating someone harms the hater more than the hated. And, while I know her to be correct, I still can't stop the way I feel. I hate Luthor, Ghul and all their unscrupulous associates. I hate them from the pit of my own blackened soul."

"Let me ask you something, Diana. If Luthor and Ghul vanished today, would you disband the Justice League and go back to running Wayne Industries, business as usual?"

"You know the answer to that, Phillipus."

"Of course I do, but do you?"

"The Justice League is bigger than Luthor and Ghul. Those men are only two in a world of cruel, greedy scoundrels. Seeing them punished for their crimes may soothe my ravaged soul and avenge my family, but I'm but one victim out of thousands . . . hundreds of thousands."

"You're the least self-serving person I know. Don't get me wrong, you're going to have your pound of flesh, but Diana Wayne is a warrior who leaves no man or woman behind. And that's the reason . . . the only reason I work for you, why I'm proud to call you my friend and to serve as your general. You can be one mean bitch at times, which is perfect, because so can I."

Diana looked at her friend then began to laugh. Phillipus followed, the SUV suddenly filled with tension-relieving laughter.

"Gracious, Phillipus, you're about to torture information out of a man on my orders and you sound as if you're ready to give me a Nobel Peace Prize."

"Well, who said the only way to bring about peace is through non-violence?"

"Ghandi. Martin Luther King Jr. Mother Theresa. You know, just to name a few."

"Well, yeah, but we aren't them. We understand that peace can be achieved in a multitude of ways, no one strategy being the only or even best tactic."

"I know. It takes many hands."

"And you're more than revenge and vengeance, Diana. Come on, we both know that. That's how you're feeling now but you won't always feel that way. With time, your emotions will eventually level out. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Diana didn't know if she were being overly critical or Phillipus not critical enough. Either way, the shallow throbbing in her stomach reminded her that there was a man she needed to check on.

"Text me when it's over. And" she said, nearly forgetting as her mind was already on seeing Clark, "I need you to record Grundy's voice. I must know if he was one of the men who came to Wayne Manor three years ago."

Diana hadn't seen the killers' faces, but she had heard their voices. Voices, even if she tried, Diana could never forget because they stalked her dreams, giving her no peace, no quarter.

"I'll take care of Grundy."

Their eyes met, a moment of icy understanding passing between them, and then Diana nodded.

Five minutes later, she opened the door to Clark's hospital room.

Groggy blue eyes lifted.

He smiled.

The pain in Diana' stomach evaporated.

**Part 2**

**South Metropolis**

"Do you think it was a good idea to bring the cop, too?"

Phillipus glanced at the trussed up and blind folded officer she and Shayera had unceremoniously dumped on the living room floor of the abandoned, run-down house, in an equally run-down part of Metropolis no one seemed to give a damn about. _The alienated life of the poor, _she thought with righteous frustration. _No one gives a damn about them until they commit a crime in North Metropolis, where all the "good" people live. Yeah right._

Shayera, after flirting shamelessly and strategically with the young officer, had slipped one of her concoctions into a drink of water she had so "considerately" brought to him. Within three minutes, the officer was rushing to the bathroom. Two minutes after that he was face-first on the tile floor, the drug having fully taken effect. And five minutes after that, the officer and an equally drugged Grundy, were on stretchers being wheeled out on a freight elevator, white sheet covering their "dead" bodies.

"He'll sleep for the night, waking with no memory of how he or Grundy got here. He won't even remember you, even if you weren't in disguise. The wig, contact lenses, and tats were a nice touch, Shayera." Phillipus looked to the woman to her left. "Keep watch, Helena."

"Huntress," Helena corrected, "and I just watched the strangest, cutest kid for the last several hours. I need something fun to do."

Phillipus shook her head. Helena Bertinelli was forever trying to get Phillipus to refer to her as "Huntress," as if that code name would make her any more fearsome than she already was. But, to Helena's credit, she had never called Phillipus on the fact that she called Tatsu Yamashiro "Katana" when they were on a mission. There was just something so cool about a woman naming herself after a deadly weapon.

"Fine, _Huntress_, keep watch. As soon as Barda gets her big ass here, let her know I have a few questions for her."

Ignoring Helena's . . . Huntress put-upon eye roll, Phillipus made her way out of the dark living room and down the rickety steps to the basement, Katana and Shayera right behind her.

The man-of-the-hour was strapped to an old wooden block table, big and sturdy enough to hold the gigantic beast of a man.

His eyes were open. Grundy had awakened not long after they'd gotten him inside the house, down the stairs and onto the table. Thick leather straps crossed his shoulders, stomach, thighs, and ankles, a dirty rag in his mouth.

"He's one big bastard," Katana said. She held a shiny, silver katana blade to Grundy's middle. "Maybe I should divest him of a pound . . . or fifty."

Phillipus never knew when the samurai warrior was joking, and wasn't certain if now were one of those rare occasions. But Grundy was heavy as sin. And while they'd basically pushed his big, unconscious ass down the steps, there was no basement door, which meant they would either have to carry him upstairs or leave him in the basement. Looking at the wide-eyed Grundy, Phillipus made an executive decision to leave the, yes, "big bastard" where he was.

"Not yet, let's see if he'll cooperate first." She moved until she was standing next to Grundy, his narrowed eyes now on her. "If he doesn't . . . well, he does put one in the mind of a pig in a blanket."

"Stop playing with the prey. The boss wants answers now, and I for one don't want to spend my entire night with Andre the Giant over there."

Shayera was right. Diana wasn't in the best of moods.

Phillipus yanked the rag out of Grundy's mouth, and wasn't surprised by the first words out of his mouth.

"I'm going to kill all of you bitches."

If the Furies had a dollar for every time some lowlife said that, they would be rich. Not that they didn't have plenty of money, they did; Diana paid very well. But men with no physical means of escape always managed to offer that threat as if they were magical words that would set them free and save their pathetic hides.

Phillipus raised her leather-gloved hand, showed it to Grundy then punched the bridge of his nose, effectively breaking it again.

He cursed them and fought against bindings that had no give. "I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ."

Katana's blade settled over his Adam's apple.

Face red, nose swelling more than before, the man wisely shut up.

"I suggest," Katana said smoothly, "you stop talking and listen to the lady. I'm bored, and right now you're the only toy here. And the urge to see if you will actually squeal like a pig is quite tempting."

Grundy's eyes shifted from Katana to Phillipus to Shayera, who had moved up and just behind Phillipus.

"Now that you're calm, why don't you tell us who you work for and who sent you to kill Mr. Kent."

"You bitches are—"

Katana struck, a clean but shallow slice across his neck.

"Fuck. I'm going to—"

Another slice.

Deeper this time.

Blood seeped through the wounds, not thick or heavy but a steady stream of liquid that was beginning to run down his chest and onto his hospital gown.

Grundy's eyes shot to Phillipus. "Tell the Japanese bitch to stop cutting me."

A third cut, his face, from cheek to foul mouth.

"All right. All right. Fuck. Get her the hell away from me."

"It doesn't feel good does it, Grundy, to have someone else doing the cutting? Maybe you should have thought of that before going after Kent with that little sticker of yours. Or maybe you should've turned down the assignment all together."

"N-nobody turns down Luthor."

Ah, now they were getting somewhere.

Phillipus nodded to Katana and the samurai lowered her blade but remained intimidately close.

"Tell me about it?"

Grundy swallowed, the act forcing more blood from his cuts. The man looked awful, both eyes bruised and puffy from where Kent had obviously punched him, more than once from the color of the shiners. But other than a few bumps and bruises and a broken nose, from what Phillipus could see, Grundy was basically no worse for his confrontation.

She turned to Shayera and mouthed, "Record every word he says."

With a wink of acknowledgement, Shayera pulled out her cell phone, hit something on her screen then winked again, letting Phillipus know she could proceed.

"Speak clearly and leave nothing out."

In a husky, gruff voice Grundy began, a reluctant confessor of his sins. "The man himself never contacts me. I hang out down by the docks, drinking and playing cards. Most people know where to find me."

Phillipus had wondered why the cretin smelled of sewage, fish, and whiskey.

"This little snotty ass wipe who works for Luthor is normally the one who finds me. You know the type. The type that wears fancy suits and talks like something's stuck up their arse. Like they aren't as dirty as the rest of us. Just cause he dresses better than me don't make him better."

A man who killed people for a living was actually complaining about snobbery among the criminal class. Phillipus snorted. That was pitifully rich.

"Go on."

He huffed, breathing deeply from his mouth. His nose crooked as all hell. It would have to be reset.

"The ass wipe gave me an envelope with the usual fee and two addresses - one local, one in Gotham."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He said Luthor could give a damn about the mark, but that it was a favor for the piece of ass he's been nailing. For some reason, she had a score to settle with the guy. Luthor's errand boy said the man I was to kill had a girlfriend and that I should"— he glanced at Katana— then murmured, "take a souvenir and send it to her."

This was getting worse and worse. Diana would go ballistic when she listened to the recording. And there was no way of getting around the fact that she would want to hear every second of this confession. With Diana, she tolerated no sugarcoating of the facts. _So be it._

"After I offed the guy, I was supposed to make his body disappear."

Grundy went on, giving the details of how he'd watched Clark's house for a week, learning his schedule and determining the best time to strike. The morning after his neighbors went to work and the suburban community was nearly vacant. And that was exactly what he'd done, breaking into Clark's house through the basement when Clark left with his son.

By the time Clark had arrived back home. Grundy was already in the house, knife poised to earn his envelope of blood money.

It was a disgusting and all together typical story for men like Solomon Grundy, leeches who grow fat and bloated off the blood and misery of others.

And if she hadn't sworn to Diana she would only kill in self-defense or in the defense of another, Phillipus would've used Katana's blade to cut the son of a bitch's rotten heart out, feeding it to him while he died a most painful death.

Instead, she grabbed the dirty rag and nearly shoved it down his throat when she put it back in. She had heard quite enough from one Solomon Grundy.

"Did you get all of that?"

"Yeah, she's going to shit bricks when she listens to it."

"I know."

Phillipus looked to Katana, who still stood at Grundy's side. "Give our guest another dose and a parting gift."

Turning away, Phillipus followed Shayera, who was already making her way up the steps.

The shorter woman threw over her shoulder, "You really shouldn't encourage her like that. She's likely to carve an origami figure into his chest."

"Perhaps she will. I've always been partial to the crane myself. But perhaps a beached whale would be more appropriate for Grundy."

"That was cold on so many levels."

Phillipus mentally shrugged. The Furies were all cold on so many levels. But they also cared about and protected each other. Diana's Furies were full of heat, too. And Diana was no exception.

When Phillipus and Shayera reached the top of the stairs, she heard Barda and Helena speaking. _It's about damn time she got here._

Rounding the corner to the living room, Phillipus saw the seven-foot, blue-eyed, black haired woman sitting cross-legged beside the still unconscious officer. Where in the hell was she when they could've used her hardy frame to help with Grundy?

"Where in the hell have you been, Barda?"

"You know, Phillipus, manners never go out of style. You may want to acquire some."

Eyes narrowed, Phillipus moved into the living room. "I asked you a question; and I expect more than some wiseass remark. We've been in emergency mode since this morning and no one could find you."

Barda stood, forcing Phillipus to look up. She hated having to look up at anyone, and the big bitch knew it.

"I don't have to report to you when I'm not working."

"You had an assignment, Barda, and that assignment is now lying in the hospital all cut to shit because you didn't do your god damn job."

"Don't yell at me, Phillipus, and I didn't have an assignment. I haven't had one since Diana's Fourth of July get together. After that, Scott and I visited Apokolips. We just got back today. A girl can spend some time with her husband, can't she?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It didn't make any sense to me either, but I follow orders like a good little Fury."

"I didn't give you an order, dammit. I passed along Diana's orders and that was to guard and protect Clark Kent. She was very clear in that, and she personally picked you for the job."

"And I did shadow him. I did what you asked."

"Until you didn't."

"Until I was told Diana had changed her mind, that Clark Kent was no longer one of her priorities."

"Besides me and Diana, no else is allowed to give you orders."

"Well, I thought . . ."

"Who? And I hope to God it's not who I think it is."

Twenty seconds later, Phillipus, Shayera, and Helena stared at Barda.

Fuck, it was exactly who she thought it was.

They all stepped away from Phillipus as if she were a carrier of the Bubonic Plague.

"Well, General," Shayera said, clearly speaking for the others, "I bet it sucks to be you about now."

Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

**Part 3**

Diana couldn't help the way her heart fairly skipped when she looked down at Clark. He was weak, tired, but he was awake, smiling . . . _and alive_.

Barely registering when Sam left the room, Diana lifted a hand and stroked Clark's cheek.

"Welcome back."

"I feel like crap."

Diana laughed. "Well, I think you have good reason to feel that way. But the doctor says you'll be fine."

Grabbing the cup of water with straw, Diana held the cup while Clark took a few, slow sips.

"Better?"

"Yeah, but I still feel like crap. I probably look like crap, too."

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Clark frowned at her, and she couldn't help but laugh again. As long as he was alive and talking, the bruises didn't matter. All would heal in time. _Even my guilty heart._

He yawned. "I'm tired."

"Then I should go. You need your rest."

"Not yet. Come closer, Diana."

He glanced to the space beside him.

It wasn't much; Clark's large frame took up most of the bed.

She sat.

"Come closer."

She leaned forward.

"Closer."

She leaned in even more, their noses almost touching.

"Some guy tried to kill me."

"I know. We'll talk about that when you're feeling better."

"Before I passed out, I saw a crying image of you."

Funny, since she hadn't cried. But something told Diana that if she cried, if she let the attack on Clark defeat her, she would lose him. That, somehow, by not crying, Diana could keep the Grim Reaper from claiming him the way he had Bruce and Brina. Irrational, she knew, but tears, for her, had too many connections to death. So Diana hadn't cried, and Clark had lived.

With his uninjured arm, he curled a hand in her hair and raised his head until their lips met.

"I love you, Diana. I would fight god or demon to stay with you. That's how much you mean to me, how much I want to be with you."

He kissed her, a tender pressing of lips.

"Tell me the truth. Do you love me, Diana? Do you love me?"

Lips still touching, warm and soft, a single word slipped from her on a breathy, contented sigh of _"Yes."_

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	38. Chapter 37: Don Corleone

**Chapter 37: Don Corleone**

**Metropolis, Martha Kent Residence**

Clark was happy to be out of the hospital. Not that he had stayed along, apparently knife wounds didn't require more than a twenty-four hour stay, he thought with more than a bit of sarcasm. But, in truth, he did feel well enough not to be cooped up in a dull hospital room with Sam Winters. A nice guy, still, it was kind of weird having another man constantly in the room with him.

Now he was at Ma's house, which, during his drugged-up phase, had turned into Fort Knox. Diana had guards stationed in and around the house, a sea of black uniformed Wayne Security officers – all large, all mean looking, all carrying sidearms. _What in the hell happened while I was out?_

Diana had told him they would speak about the attack, but this morning hadn't been the time. Diana had stayed the night then spoke with Clark's surgeon when he returned to check on his patient. The stitches were fine and Clark was infection and fever free, which meant the doctor was willing to sign the release papers.

Detective Jones had arrived right when the nurse had brought in the wheel chair for Clark. And while his pride rejected the idea of needing the chair, his weakened body had no compunction about accepting.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kent?" the detective had asked.

"As good as can be expected. I was just about to be released."

"Then it seems my timing is perfect." Jones had glanced around the small room, as if he'd missed something when he'd first arrived. "Where's Dr. Wayne? I'm surprised she's not here with you."

Clark hadn't liked the way Jones had said that nor the nagging thought that told him the man had waited for Diana to leave to come to his room. He knew what the detective wanted. Diana had told Clark to expect a visit from Jones.

"I assume you want my statement before I leave the hospital."

"Yes, a preliminary statement. Procedure, you know."

Yes, he knew.

"I figured I'd begin with you then the suspect."

By the time Diana had returned, showered and dressed in one of her power suits, hair aloft in a silky smooth bun, clacking high heels preceding her arrival, Jones was closing his notebook, smiling in satisfaction, as if he'd won a prize or bested a competitor.

But when Diana had entered and didn't appear the least bit surprised by Jones's presence, the detective's smile faltered, then his eyes had turned suspicious.

"I've just concluded my interview with Mr. Kent," Jones had said to Diana, a strange boastful pronouncement.

Diana nodded then had said, "Of course you did, Detective Jones. Clark was your ten o'clock. Mrs. Wayne is waiting in the same family waiting room we were in yesterday, she's your eleven o'clock." Diana glanced at the Rolex on her wrist. "You're quite proficient, Detective Jones. You have ten minutes to spare, enough time to grab a cup of coffee and donut from the hospital cafeteria."

Jones's suspicious eyes had morphed from anger to resentment to grudging respect. But the frustrated set of his lips said the man was not pleased by Diana's manipulations. Not that she had actually done anything at all beside anticipate the man's next move and made hers first. A perfect chess move.

Clark had smiled.

Jones had left, mumbling something about being "handled" and "controlling women."

Now Jones and Diana were in Ma's den, Clark resting when the detective arrived five minutes ago.

"I'm going to go see what's going on." With effort, Clark lifted himself from a kitchen table chair, his stomach and stitches protesting the once simple movement.

Lois eyed him with concern. Clark remembered she was standing beside his bed when he'd first awoken, his hand in hers. For a moment, he thought it was Diana, had wished it was Diana stroking his hand and telling him all would be fine. But it had been Lois. And the first thing he'd noticed was that Lois had been crying, which his ex-wife rarely ever did. A great testament to how worried she had been about him.

So while it wasn't Diana, it was nice to awake to a warm, loving face, especially when the person on his other side was Martha Kent, holding his left hand while Lois squeezed his right. Clark had been surrounded by love, grateful to be loved, grateful to be alive. And when he had asked in a croaky, dry voice, "Where's Diana?" He wasn't surprised by his mother's response of, "Making sure that we are safe." Then Ma had leaned in close to Clark's ear, speaking so that only he could hear, and then gave a second but primary reason. "She's afraid."

Of so many things Clark knew – of her guilt, of her anger, of losing him, of loving him. Though Diana had finally admitted she did love him. But Clark couldn't help but wonder if she'd only given him the answer she knew a man who nearly died had wanted . . . needed to hear. _Maybe she didn't really mean it. Maybe it was only Diana's grief that had answered and not her heart._

God, Clark hated the idea of that, but he just couldn't manage to keep the painful thought from his mind. And she hadn't actually proclaimed her love for him with the three critical words, so maybe last night was a pitying act on her part or perhaps Diana had convinced herself that she loved him only after the stabbing but now during the light of a new day couldn't bring herself to tell Clark the truth. Clark wanted Diana but not like that, not out of pity and guilt.

"Clark, your girlfriend is not exactly what I expected her to be. I mean . . . well, after what happened with C.J. and that little zoning out thing she did, I just thought her a different kind of woman."

Balancing himself on the sturdy kitchen table, Clark tried to focus on whatever it was Lois was saying to him.

"I mean," she lowered her voice, "she's holding us all hostage."

Clark sighed; he didn't need his ex-wife's dramatics. "We're not hostages in Ma's home, Lois."

"What do you call it? She won't allow us to leave."

"You can leave whenever you want, Lois. Diana told you that."

Hands went to Lois's slim hips, her typical pose when she was angry. "She also said I had to take one of her no-neck guards with me."

"It's for your own safety."

Not surprising, she ignored that and continued on.

"She also said if I didn't take one of her guards with me that would make me . . . oooh, how did your girlfriend put it? Oh, yes, 'A stubborn twit who's more interested in having her way than being safe.'"

Without thinking, Clark laughed.

Lois glared.

He shrugged, and then regretted it, the wounded shoulder smarting from the movement.

"Diana's right."

"I am _not_ a twit."

"No, about you always wanting to be right. You have to know she wouldn't be doing all of this if she didn't think there was more to my attack. I wasn't randomly selected, Lois. That guy wanted to kill me. I know it, and Diana knows it. She's doing her best to keep anyone else out of the hospital . . . or worse."

But they really needed to talk, and talking to Lois, while entertaining, wasn't going to get his questions answered, such as why Jones was here.

"Fine, I concede that point."

"You know Lois, technically, you're no longer a Kent. You're back to Lois Lane now, so Diana really didn't have to include you as one of her 'hostages.'"

It was an awful thing to say, but Clark couldn't help poking fun at Lois who was being unreasonable in the face of something she had no control over. It was inconvenient, sure, having so many people crammed into a one-story dwelling. But it was temporary, Diana, on the drive from the hospital, had said she was working on an alternate accommodation. And while Clark had no specifics, he trusted Diana.

"_Fine_, I said I concede the point," Lois huffed. "But you don't have to look so damn smug about it, Clark. Even you have to admit that Diana has a mob boss thing going on. I mean," she pointed vaguely, "all these men snap to attention when she speaks. They look at her as if she's God on high."

"They respect her, that's all."

"You must be blinded by love or stupid from your painkillers. Get a grip, Smallville, they are Diana's made men and she is Don freakin' Corleone. They'll do anything for her. Can't you see that? Anything."

Clark could see that, and, to some degree, the men's level of devotion did bother him. But so did Lois' unsaid implication. Diana wasn't a killer. No matter what, Clark refused to think the Diana he knew, the woman he loved would go to such extremes. _Maybe in self-defense but certainly not for revenge, no I'll never believe that about her. _

"And she's scary as shit when she's angry, even scarier when she's quiet." Lois pulled out a chair and sat. "I can't believe this is the woman you want, the woman my own son can't stop talking about. He missed you. I think C.J. knew something was wrong with you, although no one mentioned what had happened. Right before his bedtime, Diana had called and asked to speak to him."

"What did she say?"

Lois shook her head. "I don't know. But he slept through the night, no nightmares, no talking to ghosts. He really likes her, Clark."

"Does that bother you?" If it did, Clark could understand. Lois had been dating for the last two years, and while she hadn't found that someone special yet, Clark knew one day she would, and that C.J. would eventually have a step-father. The thought wasn't exactly a pleasing one, but it was the reality of things when married couples divorced and moved on with other people.

"I just need to know you picked correctly this time. This is our son we're talking about, your choices are no longer your own. Neither of us can be selfish in how we choose to live our lives."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Lois rose. "Diana Wayne is an enigma to me. One minute she's pleasant and warm and the next I'm wondering where her heart went."

Diana was no enigma, but she was a complex woman. And that heart Lois wondered if existed, existed all too well within Diana. Diana Wayne was a woman of passion, and that passion burned from both ends of the candle – love and hate. Most days she was more love than hate, but right now, after Clark's near fatal attack, he could see why Lois was troubled and questioning his choices.

"Maybe you should ask C.J. what Diana said to him."

"Why?"

"If you want to know the measure of Diana's heart, it will be found in her words to a child. My words will never convince you, perhaps hers will."

Leaving Lois to ponder, Clark slowly walked to the den. Just as he reached it, the door swung open. Face to face with Detective Jones, Clark couldn't miss the flare of exasperation in the man's green eyes. Apparently, the meeting had not gone well. _At least not for Jones._

"Talking to her is like an endless game of poker. I've lost even before I sat down at the table, and when I get up I'm confused and broke, feeling cheated but unable to prove a thing."

Clark stepped to the side and allowed the detective to stomp past him, mumbling. Again.

"What in the world," Clark began, moving into the den, "do you keep saying to Jones to get him to mumble like that?"

"He asked the wrong questions."

Clark doubted that. The detective was far from a rookie.

"And what are the wrong questions, Diana?"

She gave him a Cheshire smile he suspected the same way she smiled at Jones when the man had asked his "wrong questions."

He stepped closer to her and wrapped his good arm around her waist. "That's a wicked smile you've perfected."

"I know." She snuggled closer. "But I also know you'll never fall for it."

"And Jones?"

"He hates to be bested."

"And you bested him?"

"Like he said, he can prove nothing." Diana kissed his chin, his cheek.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

His hand tightened on her waist when she began a languorous tongue slide from his jaw to his neck, settling her parted lips over one rapidly pulsing vein and gently sucking.

"How are you feeling?" she asked against his neck, her breath warm and better than his painkillers. She lifted her head. "We need to talk, but you first need to get off your feet."

She helped him to the sofa and they sat, her eyes traveling his body with a distinct medical appraisal.

"I'm fine. The cuts hurt but nothing I can't handle." It was an understatement but Diana was suddenly staring at him with guilt, and he hated to see it in her eyes.

She handed him a picture.

He looked at it then frowned, recognizing the man in the picture. "This is the asshole who attacked me. What is he strapped to?"

"A table."

Clark examined the picture. The man had something written on his forehead. Letters? A word? He could just make it out, but Clark was positive it hadn't been there when they fought. And he was equally certain he had only hit the asshole with fists. He never touched the man's knife; although, from the look of things, someone had taken a blade to his forehead and etched in . . .?

"What's written on his forehead?"

"Snitch."

"Snitch? I don't get it, and how did it happen? Why is he strapped to a wooden table instead of in prison or in the hospital?"

"That's what Detective Jones wanted to know."

"So he thinks you're responsible for," he lifted the photo, "doing this to him?"

"Not me personally, no, but one of my men."

"Did Manny or Sam or one of the other guards do this?"

Diana gave a vigorous shake of her head. "Of course not, Clark . . . that's what my Furies are for."

He gaped at her.

She took the picture from his hand and considered it. "From the look of it, I'd guess Phillipus left Katana alone with him. The man must've done or said something to anger the woman. Or maybe," she shrugged, "she thought it would be a nice gift to give a man headed to jail. Snitches are so likeable in prison, I here," she said, the sarcasm rolling off her.

Clark understood Detective Jones so much better now, the mumbling and all.

"You can't just go around ordering someone's kidnapping and torture, Diana. That's . . . that's . . . like something a mob boss would do." Lois and her damn _Godfather_ analogy.

"He's not dead, Clark."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

Her face said she did know it but that she could give a damn.

"Tell me this, Clark, if I hadn't sent Steve away for two weeks, what would you have done?"

He narrowed his eyes, damn sneaky woman.

"Let me answer that for you since you seem to be at a loss for words. You would've tracked him down at work, confronted him, and introduced your very large fists to his face. Is that about it? Did I get it right?"

Diana had gotten it right, except Clark also thought a punch to the gut was a good idea. The thought of knocking the wind out of the jerk had quite the appeal. Even in Clark's diminished physical state, he still wanted to knock Trevor's block off.

"It's not exactly the same."

"True, but the motivations were."

"Love, anger, and protection?"

"A deadly mix. I wanted answers, and Grundy, the man who attacked you, was my quickest way to get them."

"What did Phillipus learn?"

"She texted me before Jones arrived. She should be here any minute. I was going to get you when she got here."

"You want me to sit in on your meeting?" If he sounded surprised, it was because Clark was surprised. Diana never involved him in her business affairs, and she hadn't actually agreed to let him participate in whatever she had planned for Luthor. _But she did agree that she loved me, perhaps this is an extension of her love and trust._

"You have every right to know what the Furies found out, Clark. Although I tried my best to keep you out of it, you're in it, as deep as any. You deserve the truth, to know all. And I will tell you; we're partners in this, whether you accept or agree with my methods or not."

"Now look who's being all alpha."

That didn't garner the smile he thought it would, but a serious grimace.

"I should've done a better job protecting you. I'm truly sorry you and your family are caught up in my mess. When this is over, I'd understand if you want to end whatever is between us. You don't need a woman like me in your life."

Diana was talking crazy, but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to stop her. Like Lois, Diana was stubborn and often required time and space to wrap her mind around the truth. So Clark relaxed against the couch cushions and ignored Diana's nonsensical guilt ridden ramblings.

After two minutes, she finally stopped and mirrored his position.

"Feel better?"

"Not really, but I take offense at being ignored."

"You weren't saying anything worth listening to."

"That's incredibly rude." She reached for and found his hand, placing it on her thigh, her hand over top of both.

"True, but you were being incredibly ridiculous."

"You are in rare form, Clark, what am I to do with you?"

He arched an eyebrow then squeezed her thigh.

Diana tsked. "You're hardly capable of doing that."

Clark heaved a sigh. "And don't I know it. I can barely get up from a chair."

When Clark and Diana finally made love, he wanted it to be when he was at peak health, which meant, for now, sex was well and good off the damn table. Whatever remorse had surfaced after seeing Grundy tied to a table flew right out of the window with the realization that even sex play had to be avoided for the foreseeable future. _Although, if Diana were to get on top and be very careful . . ._

Phillips stalked into the den, ruining Clark's budding plan but truly improbable fantasy. No way would Diana consent to having sex with him until the good doctor cleared Clark. The man's knowing words of, "No heavy lifting and no strenuous activity, Mr. Kent, no matter how beautiful and tempting," had been stated in front of Diana, who turned beet red.

"Sorry I'm late." Phillipus shut the door then moved to the loveseat cattycorner to them. "I couldn't get Barda's big behind in the truck. She thinks you're going to fire her."

Diana released his hand and leaned forward. "Considering she left Clark to fend for herself, I think I have every reason to fire her."

"Who's Barda?"

"One of my Furies. I assigned her to be your bodyguard, your shadow."

Okay, that was news to Clark. "When? Why?"

Both women turned to him as if he'd posed the most ridiculous question. "Okay. Okay. I get the why you would think I needed a bodyguard, but when did you do it? I never saw anyone hanging around."

"That's the point of a shadow, Mr. Kent. What good would we be to Diana if a civilian could make us? By the way, you pack one hell of a punch. Nice work on Grundy's nose and eyes."

"Umm . . . ah, thanks?"

"Anyway, Barda, Tatsu, and Helena are at the hotel awaiting your next orders. Glad to see you had a chance to freshen up."

"Yes, thanks for stopping by the Manor and having Alfred pack an overnight bag for me and Mom before you drove to Metropolis yesterday."

Phillipus's eye caught the picture on the couch. "I see Detective Jones has been here. He's very good."

"And quite punctual. To his dismay, he arrives exactly when I want him to."

"But not truly on time."

In amazement, Clark watched the interplay between Diana and a woman she called her "General," again reminded of Lois's comments about made men. The women were two schemers, having outfoxed a seasoned detective and, from the way Phillipus looked when she handed Diana a cell phone, closed the case in less than a day. If they weren't so frighteningly serious, Clark may have applauded their brilliance and fastidiousness.

"What's on the cell phone, Phillipus? Another picture of Grundy?" Clark asked.

"No, Grundy's confession." She pointed to the phone Diana held. "It's all there. Shayera recorded every word. Are you sure you want to hear it, Kent? It's not pretty."

He did want to hear it, but one look at Diana's suddenly pale face told him she was the one who didn't want to listen to the recording. Yet this had all been Diana's plan, Clark knew, and no way would the woman who, yes, in a way was the head of a mob family, would turn coward now.

"Play the recording, Phillipus," Clark said, taking the phone from Diana and handing it back to the general.

She did. And he and Diana listened, stunned. He couldn't believe it.

"You were right, Diana," Clark said, still unable to process Grundy's confession, "Talia Head is a wolf in sheep's clothing. I can't believe she asked Luthor to have me killed."

"She's her father's daughter. I'm not surprised to find her involved in your attack," Phillipus said, "especially after the way Barda said she came on to you at Martha's Fourth of July party."

Clark should've known Phillipus had heard about that embarrassing incident.

"A woman scorned, Kent, can be the worst kind of bitch. Not that I believe for one minute she confessed all to Luthor when she asked him to help her."

Clark turned to Diana, who had said nothing since the recording had ended. And—_god dammit_—he was struck by another one of Lois's statements. Diana _was _even scarier when she was quiet. He had no idea what she was thinking, and her eyes weren't looking at him or Phillipus, but at the hands clasped tightly together.

"He's not the one," she finally breathed. "Grundy's not the one."

_Not the one?_ Again, Clark felt lost and confused, while Phillipus nodded her head, clearly knowing exactly what Diana was talking about.

"The voice is different." She glanced up at Clark. "Grundy is not one of the men who killed Bruce and Brina. Luthor hired a different man to attack you. My family's killers are still out there."

Ah, now Clark understood why Diana had gone to such extremes, taken such risks. She'd thought Luthor had hired one of the men who'd killed her family to kill him as well. Well, Clark guessed he should be thankful Luthor had not, and that, Solomon Grundy preferred knives to guns. Otherwise . . .

"I assume Zee is still keeping an eye on Talia."

"Of course, but unless you need Shayera for something else, I think it's a good idea to send her back to Gotham to relieve Zatana."

"You can do that as soon as you tell me what happened with Barda and why I shouldn't fire or kill her and then bury her next to Talia when I'm done destroying the entire Ghul family."

Even if Clark hadn't been looking at Diana, her tone of voice would've cued him in that she meant every word, and the _Godfather_ analogy slammed into him once more. Not that Talia Head didn't deserve whatever Diana had planned for her. Still, no matter the deadly intent of Diana's words, Clark still didn't believe Diana to be capable of actual murder. Or so he kept telling himself, Diana's cold yet heated eyes telling a more volatile story.

For the first time since entering the den, Phillipus appeared unsure, perhaps even a little fearful. Surely whatever she had to say couldn't be worse than what Diana had just listened to.

"Tell me what Barda had to say for herself, Phillipus."

She did.

And it was far, far worse than Clark could've imagined.

Again, Diana was speechless. Yet her face wasn't radiant with anger or vengeance. No, there was sadness, pain, and disappointment there. A single tear fell, and Clark knew it would be the only tear she would shed for her betrayer, a friend who was no friend at all.

"Is she positive he gave the order?"

"I wouldn't have brought this to you if I weren't absolutely positive. It was him, Di, you know it was. I'm sorry."

"So am I."

And so was Clark. Hurt or not, the next time he saw—

The door to the den opened. The three occupants stared at a wide-eyed, panting Steve Trevor, whose eyes—of course—had immediately found Diana.

"You shouldn't be here, Trevor." Phillipus stood.

Clark tried to do the same, his efforts hampered by the unforgivable ache in his damn belly.

By the time Clark managed to hold onto the arm of the couch and hoist himself up, Diana was already standing and striding toward the unexpected and unwelcomed visitor.

And before either Clark or Phillipus could react, Diana had reared back and smacked the holy hell out of Steve.

Shocked, Trevor's hand flew to a cheek already turning red.

"Diana, please let me—"

_Smack._

The other cheek. She'd caught his mouth this time, splitting his lip.

"You jealous, disloyal bastard. I trusted you," she screamed in Steve's face.

"Please, please, let me explain. I thought . . . I thought—"

_Smack._

"Dammit, Diana, stop hitting me and let me explain."

Clark looked to Phillipus, expecting her to step between them. But she did nothing, just glowered at Steve, apparently having no intention of intervening.

Clark sat back down. Short of grabbing Diana and hauling her away, there was nothing he could do. Besides, she had just delivered the blows to the jerk's face the way Clark had been wanting to do for the last two weeks. And if Steve was stupid enough to get it in his head to hit Diana back . . . well, Clark was sure Phillipus and Manny, who was now standing in the doorway, would make him regret yet another poor decision. So, Clark leaned against the cushions and watched as Diana ripped into her Head of Security, who, Clark knew, after the confrontation, would no longer be her Head of Security.

It was not a pretty sight, to see a man grovel, to see a man brought low by jealousy. Yet it was this man who had told Barda Diana no longer wished for her to protect Clark, leaving Clark at risk and vulnerable to Grundy's barbaric attempt at murder.

"There is nothing to explain. I trusted you, and you betrayed me."

"I . . . I didn't think you would want to waste one of your Furies time after what I saw him doing with Talia. I was sure you would cut him loose."

But she hadn't. Diana had believed Clark's version of events instead of whatever Steve had tried to convince her to believe.

"And when I told you I trusted Clark, that I knew it had to be a trick on Talia's part to make Clark look bad in my eyes or to simply encourage him away from me and into her bed, what did you do? Did you tell Barda you were mistaken and to resume her duties? Did you tell me or Phillipus you had taken it upon yourself to overrule one of my orders? Or did you suggest to Barda a trip with her husband to Apokolips, trying to hide what you had done?"

Clark waited for Diana to smack Steve again, but it never came. Instead, she stepped away from him as if she had been the one struck. Perhaps she had been. _By a friend's betrayal._

"I forgave you once. I will not forgive you this. It would have been quicker if you had shoved a knife in my heart instead of my back."

"I . . . I didn't think anything would happen to Clark. I never wanted him to get hurt. I never thought there was any real threat to him."

Surprisingly, Clark actually believed Steve Trevor, but it didn't matter. He had made the wrong decision for all the wrong reasons.

"You just don't get it. You never understood that I was never as weak as you thought. I never needed you as much as you thought I did. And just by needing someone, by relying on another, that's not the same as being helpless. And you took advantage of your position and friendship with me to convince Barda to listen to you even though she should have known better."

Diana gave Steve her back and faced Clark. "I apologize for putting my trust and faith in the wrong man."

She had nothing for which to apologize, but Clark nodded, accepting her apology anyway, his heart breaking for her and the dissolution of a friendship he knew she held dear.

"I won't make for the best of company right now, Clark, so I'll leave. I need—"

"Space and time?"

"Yes."

He knew she would be back, so he didn't bother asking. A part of his brain vaguely remembered Diana coming into his room and making a pledge of protection. Like the apology, it also wasn't required but, also like the apology, it was something Diana obviously needed to do. So he would accept it, accept her and her need to handle and manage all within her realm of control.

"I'll be here."

With Phillipus in tow, Diana left, not another word for her former friend, who now looked to Clark with pained regret in his eyes.

Clark gestured to Manny who shot daggers at Steve when he passed him. Manny helped Clark to his feet, and then said to Steve, "I've never seen Dr. Wayne so angry and so hurt." Neither had Clark. "You broke the Wayne Industries family trust, Mr. Trevor."

"I didn't—"

"You think you're the first man to want a woman who didn't want him? Welcome to the real world, that shit happens every day."

He let go when Clark nodded that he could hold his own weight. Clark was physically and mentally exhausted, and looking at the depressed and defeated Trevor only served to remind Clark of how low the man had fallen. Manny was right, women spurned men's advances all the time and vice versa. And while Clark didn't think Steve was out to see him dead, his overarching emotion had been no different than that of Talia Head who actually did want Clark dead. Jealousy could make some men and women do the most shameful of things.

Clark walked to the door, unable to stomach the sight of Steve Trevor a moment longer. He guessed he should probably despise the man, but he couldn't muster that emotion. No, Clark simply felt sorry for him. And maybe, that was worse.

But Clark couldn't help but leave Trevor with a final thought. "Anger, resentment and jealousy doesn't change the heart of others, Steve, it only changes yours."

Clark had no idea how long Steve stayed in the den, staring at his feet, dishonor stooping his shoulders. And he didn't care.

Clark was tired.

Diana was wired.

And the only person happy about being in a full house was C.J. who now had an endless supply of people to play with and to entertain.

Eight hours later, Clark opened eyes to see Diana closing the bedroom door behind her. Saying nothing, he watched her undress, the only light a corner lamp he'd left on knowing she would eventually return. Admittedly, he didn't think it would be one in the morning.

But she was back, so Clark said nothing when she climbed into bed next to him, not missing the care she took when she got in on the left side, his uninjured side.

"I didn't mean to stay out so late."

"It's fine, but a call would've been nice."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Where did you go?"

"Jogging."

He had noticed Diana wore athletic clothing when she'd undressed, leaving a trail of discarded spandex from the door to the bed.

"What did you do after you went jogging?"

Very carefully, Diana snuggled up against him, her head going to the shoulder Grundy had left in one piece. She was warm and soft and right where she belonged.

"I went to speak with Barda and the other Furies."

"How did that go?"

"I started a fight."

"With Barda?" He was shocked.

"With them all."

"Damn, Diana, how many was that?"

"Well, here in Metropolis and not counting Phillipus . . . three."

God, the woman was a terror when left alone for too long.

"They're mercenaries, for god sakes'."

"I know."

"Yet you still picked a fight with them. At the same time?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Clark."

He breathed a sigh of relief, until she said, "I challenged each of them, starting with Barda."

"Hell, Diana, I thought you were only going to fire her."

"I did fire her then I punched her, and then we destroyed the hotel room."

Clark closed his eyes, taken aback by the crazy woman he'd fallen in love with who was speaking blithely about fighting and demolishing hotel rooms.

"So why did you challenge the other two?"

He felt her shoulders lift in a shrug. "I was still mad and they were there."

"Did you get hurt?" He couldn't imagine how she couldn't have sustained at least a few injuries, but the low lamp across the room wasn't enough for him to tell for sure.

"Of course, they're trained soldiers. They kicked my ass."

"So why in the hell would you challenge them?"

"Because it was better than going to LexCorp and shooting Luthor, which was the first place I asked Phillipus to drive me when I left here earlier. She refused, knowing I just might do it if I saw his smug, baldhead. Besides, shooting Luthor would be too quick a death for him. I plan to destroy him not kill the son of a bitch."

"Have you considered anger management classes, Diana?" Clark asked in all earnestness.

She laughed then kissed his bare chest. "Fighting Furies is my anger management. How do you think I've managed to work with and not slaughter Talia all these months?"

"By fighting your Furies?"

"Not always that, normally just a couple of hours with a heavy bag does the trick most days. But today, I felt like picking a fight with Barda. She deserved it and fighting her and the others helped me get my focus back."

"So, ah, you're feeling better?"

"Yes."

"After having your ass handed to you by three skilled fighters?"

"You don't have to make it sound as if I didn't get any good shots of my own in."

"Did you?"

"Of course, just not as many as them. And really, Clark," she said, sounding as if he were the crazy one, "if I could beat my Furies, what would be the point of even having Furies? That would be stupid and a waste of money."

True but . . .

"I love you."

Okay, that was out of the blue.

"When I was pinned by Katana, her blade to my throat, I remembered that I hadn't actually said those words to you last night."

She lifted herself onto one elbow and dropped a short, tired kiss to his lips. "I do love you, Clark Kent. What is left of my heart belongs to you."

The woman's heart was far larger than she knew, but now wasn't the time to have that conversation, not after Diana had just confessed her love for him.

Clark grinned, wanting to celebrate but knowing from Diana's yawn and the throbbing pain in his stomach, it would have to wait.

She slid down and onto his shoulder.

"I'm taking the Kents to Gotham tomorrow . . . even Lois. You all will stay at Wayne Manor until we end this."

_We?_ Clark's smile grew even wider until she said, "Maybe the next time I need to burn off some steam, you can help me. I would much prefer being pinned by you – naked and sweaty and panting with satiation than by a samurai who like to mark her victims."

So would he.

Dammit, so would he.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	39. Chapter 38: Paparazzi Lois

**Chapter 38: Paparazzi Lois**

**Gotham, Wayne Manor**

**Part 1**

The first night after the Kents had successfully settled into Wayne Manor, Clark had been exhausted and wasn't surprised when Diana hadn't come to his room. They'd said their goodnights in the upstairs hallway then she'd walked to the left and he to the right. The second night Clark hadn't been nearly as tired but Diana had been. She'd spent the day at Wayne Industries in meetings and arranging her schedule so she'd be able to work from home, preferring to "stay close," as she'd put it. So, like the first night in her home, Diana had kissed Clark's cheek and, without a backwards glance, walked to her bedchamber, which, to Clark's dismay, was on the other side of the manor.

Yet it wasn't until the third night that Clark had realized . . . or accepted that whatever closeness he and Diana had shared at the hotel in Metropolis and the night at his mother's home, would not be repeated now that Diana was home. Not that he had given what would happen next much thought. But he hadn't expected Diana to pull away from him, to withdraw so completely that he wondered if he'd dreamed when she'd confessed her love for him.

Then again, Clark chided himself, Diana hadn't reverted to her cold, unfeeling shell. It was just, he forced himself to admit, she'd been withholding the intimacy he had begun to enjoy, to look forward to, to expect. Their kisses, when they did kiss, were sweet, short and far too chaste for his liking. Passion, need, and want hummed and hung between them but Diana's tight control was a too effective dam, keeping him out. It was frustrating as hell. _She_ was frustrating as hell.

"What's with the frown, Smallville?"

Clark glanced up from where he sat. On the second day, Clark had discovered a quaint alcove in Diana's living room. Loveseat, ottoman, and reading lamp, in front of a bay window that, when uncovered, let in just the right amount of sunshine. It was an ideal place for reading and napping but clearly not for hiding from ex-wives. Not that Clark was hiding from Lois or anyone.

But he did grimace when Lois claimed the ottoman his feet had been propped on and sank her petite frame on it, destroying the last rays of privacy.

"What do you want, Lois?"

"To talk."

Of course she did. Lois always wanted to talk, whether Clark did or not. And, of late, their conversations surrounded either Diana, his stabbing, or their weird living arrangement. _Nothing like living under the same room with my ex-wife, girlfriend, two mothers, a kid, and a host of bodyguards._

"I don't want to hear any more about Diana being like Don Corleone."

Lois waved that off as if it was old news. "No, nothing like that, Clark, although," she said with an arched eyebrow, "this house just screams old school crime family. I mean, well, Mrs. Wayne and Diana don't even share the same wing with us."

Yeah, so he'd noticed. Clark didn't get that. Why did Diana assign rooms to them that were so far away from where she and her mother-in-law slept? Not that there was anything wrong with the rooms she'd given them. Like the entire house, the rooms were spacious, expensively furnished, and quite comfortable despite being luxurious. Diana had even sent Barda, who, Clark had learned, still worked for Diana after their knock down drag out fight, with Lois to her home so she could grab personal items for herself and C.J., telling Lois, "Diana wants the child to have some of his own toys while he's at the manor. She doesn't want him to be afraid when he goes to sleep at night in a strange house."

Knowing Diana had thought about his son's fears had touched Clark. Knowing Diana was growing to care for C.J. and him for her, only made Clark love Diana that much more.

"Anyway, remember when I told you Diana had called C.J. the night you were in the hospital?"

He nodded.

"I found out what she said to him."

Clark closed the book on his lap, sat up straight, and gave Lois a look for her to go on.

Lois smiled as if she'd unearthed a great secret. "Your girlfriend sang to him."

"She what?"

"Yup. A song. A lullaby, I guess."

Clark had never heard Diana sing. If someone had asked him if she could sing, he would've said "no."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

"C.J. told you?"

"Well, ah, not exactly."

"You spied on them, didn't you?"

Lois had the good grace to turn red. The woman was shameless. "So what if I did. Haven't you wondered why, in the week we've been here, C.J. always asks Diana to come to his room after we tuck him in?"

No Clark hadn't wondered. He didn't care. After the awkward initial meeting between C.J. and Diana, Clark was just pleased the two were bonding. But singing . . .? He would've never guessed.

"She has a pretty voice, actually, soothing and rich, the kind of voice that would lull a child to sleep. No wonder C.J.'s been sleeping so well."

Clark thought it to be more than that. He didn't know, couldn't explain what was happening between his son and Diana. For all her distance this past week, Diana seemed to have found a calm, a peace when she was around C.J., and the reverse was also true.

"I may have been wrong about her."

"About the Don Corleone thing?"

"No, your girl is a straight-up mobster. I haven't changed my mind about that." Lois got up and sat next to him, her elbow bony against his side. "No, what I mean is that I was wrong about Diana not being a good choice. She told me what happened to her and Bruce."

Clark blinked at Lois. Surely she didn't say what Clark thought she'd said. But her eyes shone with knowledge, with understanding.

"I thought it was a robbery gone bad, Clark. I had no idea she and her husband were targeted. It explains so much about her, including her reaction to your attack."

Lois dropped her head on his shoulder, a familiar gesture that reminded Clark that, for all their differences and their divorce, they were and would always be friends.

"I don't know if I could've been as strong as Diana. I see the way she is with C.J. and my heart breaks for her loss. She's so good with him. And the crazy thing is, I don't think she's even trying to win him over, or to impress you. She's just being herself."

Clark had noticed the same. Diana wanted children, that much was painfully obvious.

"She's spoiling him." Lois lifted her head. "By the time we leave here, C.J. will be spoiled rotten."

"Diana hasn't bought C.J. a thing." That wasn't her style. It had been Hippolyta's though, showering Donna and Diana with this and that, overcompensating for an absent father. But Diana knew better, knew that trinkets could never replace genuine love and affection from an adult.

"No, I mean with attention. Whenever she's not holed up in her office working or sparring or planning to take over the world with those Furies of hers, she's with C.J. Or rather, he's with her. He's become her shadow. She indulges C.J. by simply spending time with him."

That was true.

And Clark was foolishly, ashamedly jealous.

"The Diana I've seen this week, I think, is the closest I've come to glimpsing the true Diana Wayne. Is she, Clark, the real Diana?"

The answer was easy, although Diana was quite complex. "Not yet." A too simple response, he knew. There were so many layers to Clark's Diana, some still a mystery. But Clark knew the true Diana had yet to be fully revealed, knew that day was fast approaching but hadn't yet arrived. She still had dragons to slay and a journey to complete. Only then would the true Diana Prince rise to the fore and reclaim her rightful throne. Until then . . .

"Sooo, when are you planning on popping the big question?"

Clark gawked at Lois, friend or not, there were still some things a man did not talk about with his ex-wife. His sex life being one, and when he would propose to his lady being another.

"What? A girl can't ask? I have a busy schedule. If you don't give me advance notice, I might not be available to attend." Lois gave Clark a cheeky grin.

"For the record, we have to be the strangest divorced couple ever. I mean, who in the hell have these types of conversations?"

"We are all living together. I would think you'd find that strange."

"I do. Believe me I do."

Lois shrugged. "Well, I did refrain from asking you about sex. I assume, when your stitches are removed, you'll be needing those condoms you packed in your suitcase."

The woman was unfreakinbelievable. How in the hell . . .? Clark did not want to know. They were not having _that_ conversation. Condoms and sex with Diana were a "no-no" topic with the ex.

"Stay the hell out of my room and my stuff, Lois. We're divorced, which means you don't get to know about my sex life."

"You don't have a sex life, Smallville."

Clark narrowed his eyes at her, not liking the smug way she said that.

"Beyond the fact you're probably too sore to do it properly, you're in Diana's home."

Offended, Clark snapped, "First of all, I'm _not_ too sore to do it properly. And second, what does being in Diana's home have to do with anything?"

"God, Clark, you can be such an idiot sometimes." Lois stood, hands on her hips. "This is her home."

"So?"

"The home she shared with her husband, the home where she lost him, where she was shot and nearly died. Do you honestly think she brought you here to sex you up?"

At his stunned expression, Lois covered her mouth and laughed. "You are such a man, Clark. I bet you tried to have sex with Diana in the house we shared."

Well, yeah, once when she'd come over for dinner. It went nowhere, but Clark just thought Diana was keeping him to their no-sex agreement. It hadn't occurred to him she might have had another reason for turning him down.

Now, however, he felt like the idiot Lois accused him of being. And an insensitive one to boot.

"Bruce may be gone, Clark, but this manor was their home. Diana may have invited you here, but you can't expect her to treat you as a lover in the very home her husband grew up in. Such things may not mean much to you, and, I guess, for many men it wouldn't, but for women, for us, it does."

That made too much sense to Clark, and he now felt like shit for doubting Diana. A part of Clark hated Bruce. Even in death, the man still managed to wedge himself between Clark and Diana. She might not still be in love with him, but Diana loved Bruce Wayne. A fact Clark knew he would just have to learn to accept. But there was no competing with a dead man. And being in this house, surrounded by Wayne's things and the memories Bruce and Diana had shared here, Clark couldn't help but feel the echoes of old jealousies, buried inadequacies.

"Now you have that frown on your face again."

"It's your fault. You drive me crazy with your thoughts and opinions. Next time, keep them to yourself."

"Suit yourself. Now, where's, C.J.? It's his bedtime."

Clark rose. "Dumb question. I'm sure he's with Diana."

"Well, duh, but this is a mansion, remember? I'm not going to go room-to-room looking for them."

They didn't have to. Clark picked up the phone by the loveseat, pushed one button and waited.

One ring later, "Yes, Master Kent? How may I help you?"

Clark had no idea how Alfred Pennyworth knew who was calling, but the man ran a tight ship and was almost as scary as the house guards.

"Hi, Alfred, do you know where Diana and C.J. are?"

"The theatre room, sir. Anything else?"

"No, thanks."

Clark hung up, and five minutes later he and Lois stood in the mini movie theatre with surround sound and HD. Good lord, he'd gone to cinema heaven. And all he could think about was watching a sex video of himself and Diana on that gigantic screen, a screen that was showing something far less carnal than what Clark had in mind. _How to Tame Your Dragon, I should have known. C.J.'s favorite movie._

His eyes were glued to the screen, and the black baby dragon trying to fly with one good wing and one damaged wing. Like C.J., the dragon in the movie wasn't perfect but it was a fighter, a survivor. It had learned to trust and earned a friend in return in the human boy. They protected and helped each other, filling holes and making themselves whole. _Like C.J. and Diana's friendship._

"Time for bed, buddy."

C.J. looked at his father, the screen, then to the woman whose lap he'd invaded. C.J. was sprawled across Diana's lap, and she seemed to barely notice or care that a five-year-old had wrinkled what, Clark guessed, was a very expensive silk blouse.

"Come on, sweetie, let Mommy get you washed and ready for bed."

First hugging Diana then Clark, C.J. said his goodbyes and allowed Lois to drag him off to bed, first garnering a promise from Diana that she would visit him before he fell asleep.

Clark slid into the chair next to Diana.

"How many times have you watched this movie with him?"

"I have no idea."

"And you don't care, do you?"

"Not really. C.J. likes it, and it has a nice message about friendship, cultural differences, acceptance and disability. He's too young to catch all of that, but I think he picks up on most of it."

Clark agreed.

He wanted to tell Diana how amazing she was with his son, what a fabulous mother she would make, and how much he desired to give her that child she so wanted. It was easy for Clark to see himself raising a son or daughter with Diana. When she'd come in late to his mother's home, she'd slipped into his room and bed as if it were the most natural thing to do. He wanted that every night, to hold her close and know she was his. To watch her with their child, playing and singing and watching a cartoon over and over simply because their child loved it and she loved spending time with the child they'd created.

Clark wanted that future with Diana, sensed, with patience, he could have all of her. No, the real Diana was still partially hidden, but the portion exposed was enough to fill him with hope.

And desire.

He loved her, and he wanted to remind her of that.

"Let's go out."

She gave him a surprised look but not an uninterested one. "Where?"

Clark took a minute to think. No matter where they went, one of the guards would drive them, and, most likely, one of the Furies would discreetly follow. He wanted to be alone with Diana. Just the two of them, so he could hold her, kiss her, and whisper words of love and affection in her ears.

Lois was right. Wayne Manor was not the place for that. This home was all Diana and Bruce. Clark respected that, but he wouldn't permit it to hold Diana prisoner, be her Amityville Horror.

"What about the inn I stayed at when I first came to Gotham. It was nice and quiet and, with summer almost at an end, I'm sure they'll have a room available."

He wasn't suggesting sex, although that would be nice. No, Clark was suggesting something far more intimate than that, and the way Diana looked at him said she understood.

Time. Uninterrupted time. They needed that.

And Clark knew what would happen when her board arrived in a week. Diana was already planning for their stay. More importantly, she had firmed up her plans for Luthor, Talia, and Ra's al Ghul. Clark didn't like it one bit, but it was a good plan. Her board, especially Donna and Hippolyta would go ballistic, and when the Prince women disagreed . . . well, Clark knew to take cover. The bottom line, which they both knew, the next few days were all they had before madness ensued.

"That sounds wonderful. I'll have Alfred call and make arrangements, and then I'll go pack an overnight bag."

Clark stood then pulled Diana to her feet. He so wanted to kiss her, to press his hungry lips to hers and bask in their softness.

He stepped back.

"I'll check on C.J., pack a bag and meet you by the front door in about twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes should be enough time."

Before leaving, Diana had smiled at him, a flirty, sensual one he hadn't seen in a week. Yeah, this overnight getaway was already going in the right direction and they hadn't even left the manor yet.

**Part 2**

From her bedroom window, Lois watched Clark and Diana climb into Diana's limo, one of the guards at the wheel. It was only eight o'clock, and while Martha and Mrs. Wayne were still awake, they were entertaining themselves in the billiards room.

This was the perfect time.

Slipping from her room, Lois walked quietly yet quickly from the east wing where Diana had placed the Kents to the west wing where the Wayne's slept.

The hallway was long and connected the wings. Wall sconces were the only illumination, which suited Lois just fine. She didn't want to be seen no more than she wanted to be heard. The last thing she wanted was to explain to a guard why she was some place she didn't belong.

Turning a corner, Lois saw five bedrooms. Glancing behind her but spotting no one, Lois hurried to the first room. The door was open, so she peeked inside. Immediately, she knew it wasn't the room she was looking for. She moved to the next room and the next, neither the room she sought.

Reaching the end of the hall, she tried the door. Locked.

She smiled.

This was the room.

Grabbing a hairpin from her hair, Lois bent the pin until it was straight. Sticking it into the lock, Lois fiddled until she heard the lock click then give. Feeling like a cat woman, she turned the knob, pushed open the door and went inside.

The chamber was grand. Large didn't begin to describe the open space. She stood on a beautiful gray-and-burgundy spotted marble floor, the heavy, floor-length drapes over the many windows matching the burgundy in the floor. There were paintings on the wall, none of which Lois could clearly see.

The darkness in the room was almost palpable, but Lois could make out a couple of antique dressers, armoires, two writing desks, lamps, and a four-poster bed that had to be specially made because Lois had never seen a bed that wide and long.

She gulped when she saw it, knew it was there where Diana had been shot. And Bruce Wayne had also been shot. She didn't know exactly where, but Diana had told her about Bruce rushing to the room to save her, to only be shot and killed.

Perhaps there was something sick and perverted about Lois that she couldn't stay away from this room, something she couldn't name that had driven her there.

What had she expected to see? she now wondered, as she stared at the beautiful gold-and-black bed covering. A crime scene? Yellow crime scene tape? A chalk outline?

She didn't know, but the drive she'd once known as a reporter had carried her to what had been Diana and Bruce Wayne's bedroom. A bedroom, she knew, Diana no longer slept in. Not that she could blame the woman. _But how does she stomach to sleep so close to it? Why in the hell does she still live in this tomb of a manor?_

Noticing a door to the left of the bed, Lois walked across the chamber, through the door, and into a smaller but no less deathly quiet room.

She scanned the new discovery. Eyes went wide then began to tear. White, yellow, and pink were everywhere – walls, closets, stuffed animals, crib.

She couldn't move, not as much as a single step. The room was lovely, everything a child would need to be welcomed into the world.

C.J.'s room had been designed with the same care Lois knew this room had been decorated with, the anticipation of new life there in the sweeping calligraphy on the wall beside the crib that heartbreakingly read: Our Joy, Our Heart.

Lois wiped at the tears, and knew she had made a horrible, horrible mistake. She didn't belong there. For once, she understood what it meant for a reporter to overstep. And, hell, she couldn't even hide behind that. She was no longer a reporter, and Diana's private hell was not a story. This room, the one that would never be home to a baby, was none of Lois's business.

With a rush of regret and sorrow, Lois moved through the baby's room, wrenched the door open, and ran smack into the last person she wanted to see.

"I-I-ah thought you left."

Mouth dry, body trembling with undisguised fear, Lois waited for the six-foot woman with cold, flat eyes to murder her where she stood.

The way Diana stared down at Lois was unholy. There was no life there, no humanity seeping through the artic shards of blue.

Diana stepped towards Lois. She wondered if screaming for help would do any good or whether Diana would snap her nosey neck before she had a chance to utter a single syllable.

Then those orbs stared past Lois and into the room she'd just fled. And what could only be described as inconceivable pain flooded Diana's eyes, the arctic giving way to the abyss.

"Diana, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Of course you did." Low. Soft. Agonized. "What happened next door was macabre. A scene from a horror movie, every reporter's dream, right?"

"No, no, that's not—"

"Get away from me, Lois, before I forget you're Clark's ex-wife and C.J.'s mother."

Without another word, Diana stepped around Lois, went into her daughter's room, and quietly shut the door.

Heart pounding with fear and guilt, Lois had no idea what she'd just done. The way Diana had stared off into that room was shattering and brutal to watch. No wonder the woman was cold as ice.

But that was just it. She wasn't. She was a woman who'd seen too much and had lost even more. And Lois had just inadvertently smacked Diana in the face with all that had been taken away from her.

Lois heard footsteps. She looked up and saw Clark coming toward her.

He looked at Lois, the closed door behind her, and then back to Lois.

Clark frowned, an angry one this time. "What in the hell did you do, Lois? What in the hell did you do?"

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	40. Chapter 39: Sailormoon

**Chapter 39: Sailormoon**

**Gotham, Wayne Manor**

A part of Diana wished she hadn't been in such a rush to spend quality time alone with Clark that she'd forgotten her cell phone. Manny had driven nearly to the end of the driveway when she'd remembered leaving it on her vanity. Within minutes, she was back at the house and running up the stairs.

When she'd reached the landing, Diana had noticed the door to the master bedroom was ajar. That should not have been the case. After the Gotham PD had given their approval, Alfred had cleaners in the room. Diana hadn't entered since that fateful night, Hippolyta and Donna the ones to remove Diana's belongings from the room. She simply couldn't bear it.

Not then.

Not now.

She'd moved closer to the bedroom, wondering what had possessed Alfred or Martha to enter after three years. Then Lois had come rushing from the nursery, nearly slamming into Diana.

And everything had fallen into mind numbing place. Not Alfred or Martha but Clark's reporter of an ex-wife. Not that Lois was still a reporter, Diana knew, but she still had the bite, tenacity, and insensitive curiosity of one.

Thinking full disclosure best, Diana had taken the time to bring Lois up to speed. With what had happened with Clark and their current and unorthodox living arrangement, Diana felt Lois had a right to know.

She should have known better than to trust her. The fact that less than twenty-four hours after their conversation Lois had broken into a locked room, she had to know once belonged to Diana and Bruce, was testament to how little the woman could be trusted, as well as how little such a woman respected Diana, her home, and her right to privacy.

Diana could hear voices on the other side of the door. Clark and Lois. They were arguing, or rather, Clark was raging at Lois. He wasn't loud, nor was he yelling, but his tone was harsh, irritated even.

Well, she thought, better for Clark to deal with his ex than Diana. Because, hell yes, for a moment back there Diana had envisioned all the ways she could punish Lois for her betrayal, her need to see what wasn't for her to look upon. This was Diana's life, her family, and Lois Lane had no right to scratch at scabbed-over scars.

And so the desire to fling the scrawny twit down the winding steps, face-first, had nearly won out. Only the thought of C.J. had stilled her hand, tempered her rage and need to hurt Lois as much as seeing her daughter's sanctuary invaded had hurt Diana. Yet a boy needs his mother, even one as thick-headed and meddlesome as Lois Lane.

Diana turned away from the door; gazing upon the nursery she hadn't had the courage to lay eyes on in three long years. It was exactly how she and Bruce had left it.

Slowly, Diana began to walk the length of the room, hand sliding over crib, dresser, changing table, swing. All selected by her and Bruce, all chosen with their daughter in mind.

On a table in the corner, were the gifts Diana had received during the baby shower. She didn't recall Bruce or Alfred bringing them upstairs, although she did recollect Bruce telling her he would take care of the gifts. Diana supposed he'd done what he'd promised after she'd fallen asleep.

The thought warmed her, thinking of Bruce moving about the manor when everyone was asleep, a smile on his face as he lugged gifts for his daughter up to the room he'd spent hours painting. That had surprised Diana, sure her husband would hire the best designer in Gotham to turn their daughter's room into a nursery fit for a Wayne. Yet he'd wanted to do the work himself. So he had, using weekends and nights to create what Bruce had called "the perfect palace for my princess."

And he'd done precisely that. Diana had been so proud. Even now, three years later and the low light from the moon shining through the windows, Diana could feel and see the love that went into this room. _Brina would've been so happy here_.

Stopping at the white bookshelf with pink roses and carnations intertwined on the top in a bouquet of floral loveliness, Diana bent then sat. Eyes traveled over the old familiar children's books. Only a few had been new purchases. The bulk of the books were gifted to Brina from Hippolyta and Martha who had held on to them from when Bruce and Diana had been children.

They were well loved and used but in good shape. Diana smiled then plucked one from the second shelf. _Where the Wild Things_ _Are,_ by Maurice Sendak, had been a favorite of Bruce's. Diana knew if the light were on, she would see a little B.W. on the bottom of the first page. She put the book back and grabbed another. _Happy Birthday to You_ by Dr. Seuss was one of the new books on the shelf. It had been Donna's contribution since she'd refused to part with the one she'd used to beg Diana to read to her from Donna's first birthday after their father had abandoned them and for four birthdays after that.

Diana cracked the spine when she opened it and silently read the first page. _I wish we could do what they do in Katroo. They sure know how to say "Happy Birthday to You!" In Katroo, every year, on the day you were born, they start the day right on in the bright early morn. When the birthday Honk-Honker hikes way up Mt. Zorn, and lets loose a big blast on the big Birthday Horn. And the voice of the horn calls out loud as it plays: "Wake Up! For today is your Day of all Days!"_

Diana closed the book and set it aside. C.J.'s birthday was in December, Diana recalled Clark telling her, maybe he would enjoy the book as much as Donna had.

Her eyes alight on the last book on the third shelf, and her hand trembles as she reaches for and slides it from the shelf. A mother hare and a baby hare are on the front. The mother's head is leaned downed so her baby can hold onto her long ears. A tear escaped Diana and she crushes Sam McBratney's classic tale, _Guess How Much I Love You,_ to her chest.

The book had been sent from Greece as a gift from Diana's father to his unborn granddaughter, but Diana had known it was actually meant for her. "Guess how much I love you, Diana?" her father used to ask each night he'd laid her down to sleep. "This much," she would always say, holding her arms wide for the hug that never disappointed. And when her father would wrap her in his strong, warm arms, Diana would snuggle deep, inhale his unique daddy scent, and wait for him to say, "My love for you, baby girl, is endless and forever. That is how much I love you." Then he would kiss her forehead, tuck covers up to her chin and leave the nightlight on before he left her room.

Despite all the ugliness and pain that had followed, Diana held onto those early memories of her father. They would never recapture what time and selfishness had erased, but upon hearing of Diana's brush with death, Ambrose Prince had swallowed his pride and fear and had traveled to Gotham. He and Hippolyta didn't speak the entirety of his visit, but Diana had known that, in spite of her mother's shock and anger, she was grateful Ambrose had come . . . and so had Diana. And a girl, no matter what, will always love and need her father.

Diana reclined on the floor, her back and head going to the white carpet beneath. Like her dream the night she'd stopped taking the sleeping pills, Diana sensed her daughter's presence. The aroma of dreamlight flowers were in the air, tickling her nose and warming her heart. Brina was with Diana, as she'd promised, keeping the nightmares away and her love infinitely close.

And while the master bedroom no longer held anything for Diana but blood, tears, and heartache, this room, this nursery of hope and love was untouched, pure, and sacred. _Like my daughter, like Brina Hippolyta Wayne. My savior._

Diana turned onto her stomach, eyes finding a row of stuffed animals lined up next to the bookshelf. Bruce had been forever buying one stuffed toy after another. And while she recognized the fluffy white lamb with crooked ears, the gray bunny with a pot belly, the black dog with a red bow around its neck, Diana didn't think she'd ever seen the white and pink Sailormoon Artemis stuffed cat with a yellow moon in the center of its head.

Diana sat up and snatched the toy from the floor. Bruce used to purchase Diana little bracelets and necklaces with half-moons. The tradition began when they were children, Bruce sending her a drawing of the Roman goddess, Diana, quiver on her back, bow in her hand, a deer at her side, and a moon made for hunting in the sky above. Bruce had labeled the drawing "Diana of the Hunt."

Her heart began to race. It couldn't be this easy. Not after three years of searching, of avoiding the one room Bruce knew she loved above all others. Yet the evidence of her dead husband's brilliance was cradled in her unsteady hands.

Running fingers over the plush toy with the bright pink ears, Diana felt a loose stitch. Turning the toy over so its underside was showing, Diana stood, switched on the lamp near the crib and examined the toy. Just as she'd felt, she saw a white thread hanging from the cat's stomach. Pulling on the thread, Diana watched, in awe, an incision the size of her index finger, lengthen until it revealed what it was meant to conceal.

Carefully, Diana slipped a finger inside the toy.

Searching.

There, under soft, white stuffing . . . Diana inserted a second finger. A moment later, she held a .3 ounce micro USB. Tiny and unassuming, Diana knew it held all the reasons why Bruce Wayne had been marked for death. And her key to finally—_finally_—having the evidence to put Luthor and Ghul away for a very long time. _To make them pay._

Bruce's letter to Clark had said it all. Whatever was on the small device had been enough for Bruce to fear for his life, enough for him to hide the evidence in the one place no one would think to look. And if Brina hadn't also died, Diana would've found the Sailormoon Artemis cat three years ago, instead of by happenstance today.

Perhaps, Diana thought, sticking the USB back into the toy and putting it on the floor where Bruce had left it for her to find and handle, as he knew she would, Lois Lane's natural nosiness was good for something other than trying Diana's patience.

Before clicking off the lamp, Diana stared at her daughter's room, seeing, in her mind's eye, a pony-tailed Brina holding the Artemis cat and smiling up at her with trust, faith, and love. The same way the child Diana looked at Hippolyta, the same way the adult Diana looked at Clark.

Turning off the light, Diana wished her daughter a good night, and then slipped from the room, her heart and soul lighter and freer than it had been when she'd entered.

On the other side of the door, waiting with the patience of Job, was Clark.

Silently, he stepped to Diana then wrapped her in arms she'd never grow tired of being held by. "Are you all right?"

"Better now that you're holding me."

"Do you want to talk about it? Though, I'd understand if you don't."

Diana did want to talk about her discovery. More importantly, she wanted to cry good, relieved tears. Ever so slowly, she felt herself reforming, becoming one and whole, no longer broken, fragmented pieces of this and that, Frankenstein with a mind but a questionable, disillusioned heart.

Diana pulled away from Clark. "I want us to forget about the last hour, for now, and have the evening you planned."

"We can do it another time. We don't have to—"

"I want to. Tonight, Clark. Just us. We can talk tomorrow."

The USB would be exactly where it had been for three years. One night. Diana wanted one night with Clark before she allowed herself to be swallowed up in a miasma of plots, promises, and pain.

One night. To be the woman she'd once been. To love the man who now had scars to match her own, but loved her anyway.

Clark smiled, sexy, wicked and knee-weakingly delicious.

Taking his hand and twining her fingers through his, Diana led Clark down the steps, out the door, and into the waiting limousine.

Saying nothing about how long they'd been in the house, Manny looked into the rearview mirror and asked simply, "Where to, Dr. Wayne?"

Diana smiled and answered.

Clark kissed her cheek then whispered in her ear, "Once I have you alone, I'm going to lick every scrumptious inch of you." He held her close, his breath and words sending liquid heat to all the right places. "Twice."

_Oh my._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	41. Chapter 40: Forever More

**Chapter 40: Forever More**

**Gotham City: Gotham Inn and Suites**

Despite Diana's insistence that she and Clark continue with their plans for the evening, she was in a quiet, melancholy mood.

In the limo, Clark had stroked dark hair he'd pulled from a French braid, curling locks around his fingers. Shoes off and body curled on the leather seat, Diana's head had lain in his lap, her eyes closed. She'd been like that for the entirety of the ride. In her own world, near but so far away.

Clark didn't blame her, though. Not after what Lois had done. Now, watching Diana on the balcony of their hotel room, her body set in silhouette, Clark thought back to the guilty way Lois had looked at him when he'd approached. Words had tumbled from her, a confession of audacity, curiosity, and shame.

He'd wanted to shake Lois, wanted to yell at her for being so god damn intrusive.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" He'd held up his hand when she'd begun to answer. "Forget it. Just forget it. You weren't thinking. You never think beyond whatever fleeting thought of curiosity enters your mind. But why you would be so damn interested in a murder scene I'll never know."

She'd fidgeted with her hands, eyes cast down, and shoulders slumped. "I don't know what came over me, Clark. Diana is such a mystery. I told you that. I guess I wanted to know what made her tick."

That had angered Clark even more, because Diana had reached out to Lois and brought her into her inner circle, trusting her with the truth. Then she'd gone and invaded Diana's privacy. And while Clark had learned long ago that Lois had her own trust issues, the need to know all, even when that meant sticking her nose where it didn't belong, it hadn't occurred to him she would do something so utterly stupid and insensitive.

"She said we had free rein of the—"

"Don't try it, Lois. You know damn well she didn't mean for you to go snooping in a part of the manor where only she and Mrs. Wayne stay."

And, dammit, he'd realized, that had probably been the reason why Diana had put the Kents in the west wing. _She'd wanted to keep her past separate from her present._

"I thought she was going to kill me." Lois had stared up at Clark then, all regretful, tear-filled eyes. "And I would've deserved it if she had." She shook her head. "Her eyes . . . my god, Clark, you should've seen her eyes. They were . . . they were like endless pools of frosty blue after winter settles in and refuses to let go."

Yeah, Clark had seen those eyes once or twice before. If he allowed, they would haunt his dreams.

"I tried to apologize. I really did, but she didn't want to hear it."

"Do you blame her? Diana's worked really hard to put her life back together. She doesn't need you making it more difficult for her with your prying."

"So, um, I guess you're going to go after her. She could probably use a friend about now."

Clark had glanced up at the closed door then, hearing nothing from within. He did want to go to Diana, to hold her to him and make all her pain fade away. But that wasn't what she needed. It was what he needed.

No, Clark had watched as Lois walked down the hallway that led to the other side of the manor, then he'd plopped himself down beside the door and waited for Diana. Clark couldn't make Diana's pain go away, only she could do that. Diana had to find her own answers, come to terms with the bleakness inside of herself. And she had been doing that, long before Clark reentered her life. He'd done his part to show Diana there was more to life than she'd been living, but he wasn't arrogant or fool enough to believe that he alone could cure all that ailed Diana Wayne.

She was a strong woman, stronger than he'd ever imagined. And strong people persevered. They fought and hung on because, for them, life was a precious commodity that could never be bargained, bartered or abjectly endured.

But Diana had endured, pushed past the grime of death and despair, struggling on hands and knees through muck and mire that would've destroyed a lesser, weaker person. For that alone Clark admired and respected the hell out of his Diana.

So he'd waited by that door, knowing, having faith that she would not cower in the face of her dead daughter's nursery. Diana was bigger than that now, past that stage of grief and mourning. She might have wanted to throttle Lois, and, to be honest, anyone who knew Lois, for more than five minutes, had had that feeling a time or two, but that didn't mean she would fall apart. His Diana was through with falling apart.

She was ready to move on with her life. In truth, she already had. All the signs were there, even if the woman herself had yet to fully see or accept the truth. Tonight, she would lead. Tonight, Diana would have to decide what she wanted from him and how far she would have to go to have it. Because, well, after tonight, the next move would be Clark's and he knew exactly what he was going to do with his turn.

Clark thought about joining Diana on the balcony but decided against it. When she was ready, Diana would come inside. Until then, he could cruise the cable stations. There had to be a preseason football game on he could catch. Taking shoes and socks off, Clark propped two pillows behind him on the bed and picked up the remote control.

Fixated on the game, Clark didn't hear Diana enter the room, closing and locking the balcony doors behind her. He did, however, feel the dip in the bed when she lay down next to him, her head going to his lap, eyes up and fixed on him.

She smiled, warm with just a touch of sadness hiding behind exquisite blue eyes.

He returned her smile, making sure he hid nothing. Clark wanted Diana to see all of him, needed her to know, to feel the depth of his love for her.

Her smile grew, reaching eyes that now glowed with a woman's seductive allure.

Running a finger over her lower lip, Clark asked, "What do you want to do tonight?" His exploring finger traveled to her upper lip, following the soft curve until she parted her lips on a sweet, lusty sigh. "I brought a travel game of chess and checkers. I also have a deck of cards." His thumb sought out and found a rosy cheek, sliding over it with the pad of his finger, grazing downward to her jaw, and farther to the pulse at her neck, stroking with a languid rhythm. "Or we could watch a movie." Diana sucked in a deep breath when his thumb skimmed the tanned skin above her décolletage; her low cut blouse a stirring temptation. "Or we could," he said, enjoying the way she softly moaned at his teasing touches, "place an order with room service. Maybe order dessert, something with whipped cream."

Whipped cream sounded like a perfect idea. Clark already had ideas spinning in his mind as to how and on what—

"Or," Diana said, lifting herself to her knees, "you could stop toying with me, get undressed and join me in the shower."

Clark gulped.

Diana winked, and then jumped from the bed. In one unexpected but erotically slow move, she pulled her blouse from her waistband, shimmied it over ripe, luscious breasts, and then tossed the shirt at him.

He caught it with hands gone shaky.

Then she was gone, leaving a trail of clothes in her wake.

Clark glanced down at her shoes, pants, bra . . . thong panties. _Shit._ The woman wore red thong panties. Then it was Clark jumping from the bed, moving faster than doctor's orders permitted. But to hell with doctor's orders. There was only one remedy for abstinence and, apparently, Diana was about to fill his prescription. Because, hell yes, celibacy sucked.

Trotting after Diana like a trained Great Dane, Clark pushed open the bathroom door. Diana was already inside the shower, water on, steam beginning to rise. He glanced down at himself . . . and so was he; rising fast and growing harder the longer he stared at Diana's naked form on the other side of the frosted shower door. Reminding himself to take it easy, that tonight was Diana's show, Clark managed to open the door and enter the shower with a modicum of dignity.

Then he got a good look at a naked, wet Diana, and dignity be damned.

He stared, wide eyed, mouth open, and dammit, tongue hanging out and to the side, panting as if he'd run a mile. _Three years._ Yeah, that was so much longer than a measly mile.

The woman was hot as sin, hotter than he'd remembered. Curves everywhere. Beautiful, big breasts with pointy pink nipples that had him licking his lips, eager for a taste or two or a thousand. And, goddamn, Diana was all long sleek legs and arms, muscular, toned, and absolutely gorgeous, a feline with grace, strength, and undeniable sex appeal.

He had to have her.

"Come over here, Clark."

He followed the finger that beckoned him closer. She pulled him to her, hard chest to soft breasts. Then she kissed him, went straight for what she wanted and took. Diana's tongue was inside his mouth before Clark had realized. Inside and totally destroying ever nerve pulse in his mush of a mind.

He thought she would take it easy, go slow. It had, after all, been three years for the both of them. But, no, there was nothing slow or easy about the way Diana was kissing him.

Nor was there anything slow and easy about the way she was—_fuck, that feels good_—stroking his johnson.

He sank into her deeper, the kiss and her hand. And she was so good at both, whirling, twirling tongue, tight, twisting fist.

He groaned his pleasure, backing Diana against the tiled shower wall.

Breaking the kiss, he lowered his head to her neck and began his own assault, kissing and licking. But it was nothing compared to what she was doing to him, driving him mad, causing him to succumb to her relentless will.

And he did, finding that motion he could never forget, an ingrained part of every male.

He thrust. Oh no, Clark could never forget this, hips on autopilot.

Again.

Again.

Happily, desperately, he lunged into that tight-fisted hand of hers, the friction and heat and hardness so damn good. He was slick, from the water and himself. And Diana used that wetness to bring him even more pleasure, gliding up-and-down-and-around.

Up-and-down-and around.

Up-and-down-and around, stopping at the tip, squeezing gently then circling with her thumb, dipping in and bringing forth even more wetness.

Ah, damn, Clark was so close, so close, and Diana was giving him no quarter.

Ruthless. The woman was ruthless, taking him to the edge of his self-control.

Clark bucked, rapid and hard, his rhythm gone, sanity following, leaving just Diana and her gifted hand that was—_shit, yes!_—making him come.

The explosion rocked through Clark – hot, wild and loud. _Yes_, so damn loud, him, moaning into Diana's neck, straining into a hand that kept at him, milking Clark and demanding all from him.

And he gave it. Gave himself up to Diana who, from the earth shattering way she worked him, was bound and determined to make Clark see stars and worship at her altar.

Goddess Diana. Yes, that's what she was, for only a goddess could do to Clark what she'd just done. And it had begun with four simple words: _Come over here, Clark_.

He had, and she'd wrecked him, in the best possible way.

"I," he tried to breathe, "really needed that."

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Diana kissed him then smoothed wet hair from his forehead. "I know, and I need you, Clark Kent. I didn't want to. It hurts to need and want then lose. It does something to the heart that even the mind can't decipher." She raised a hand to his cheek, the one that didn't just spectacularly manhandle him, the palm a soothing weight. "I didn't want to love you again. I didn't want to hope, didn't want to try and fail once more. I didn't want . . . to want. But I did. I wanted. And it scared the hell out of me. I wanted. And you wanted, and that frightened me even more."

Clark said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything other than listen to Diana pour her heart out to him.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, as if the truth of her feelings overwhelmed even her. They probably did. But when she opened her eyes, they were the most vibrant blue, the shade more royal blue Prince than steel blue Wayne.

"I can fight many things, Clark, and I have. But I can't fight myself. I tried. For a while, I did try. But no longer. I should have said it better last week. I shouldn't have blurted it out as if it were an afterthought to be tossed out as if it didn't matter. It does."

Diana's hand came to Clark's shoulder. Gently, she ran her hand over the bandage covering the stab wound on his shoulder then she winded her way down his chest to his stomach. Once there, she touched the skin around the wound that had nearly claimed his life, tender butterfly touches that had him shivering.

That same hand dropped, only to find his and lift. It was the arm Grundy had sliced; the one Clark had used to defend himself from the attack intended for his throat. Holding his hand, Diana placed it on the right side of her chest. _Over her heart. _

He could feel it beat. Not fast as his pumped, but steady, sure, like the way she looked at him, like her words.

"I love you, Clark Kent. I love you not because you love me, but because you make me want to be better, do better, all the while accepting me for the woman I've become—flaws, scars, and temper. I love you because you forgave me when I didn't know how to forgive myself or even how to ask for forgiveness. I love you because you trust me, with your heart, with your life, with your son." Hand still pressed to her heart, Diana raised her arms and enveloped Clark. "Most of all, I love you because you are you, and that's always been enough for me."

Clark was pretty sure he cried then. Diana surely was.

For long minutes, they stayed like that, holding each other, warm water running, love flowing, binds of commitment tightening.

Then they were on the bed, Diana on top, his fantasy come true. Rolling a condom on him, all traces of the soft Diana from the shower was gone, replaced by the wanton goddess hovering over him, taunting and tempting with eyes, mouth, and hands.

"Don't let me hurt you," she said, eyes traveling to his bandaged stomach.

Hell, from the moment Diana had tossed her shirt at him, revealing delectable breasts in a red bra, Clark hadn't given his wounds another thought. And he wasn't thinking about them now, especially not when he had a warm, naked, and willing Diana astride him. Besides, before he packed his overnight bag, he'd made sure to down a couple of painkillers. No way would he be, as Lois had so indelicately put it, "too sore to do it properly."

"You won't hurt me." He lightly swatted the plump ass that rested on his thighs.

The look Diana shot him was pure womanly wickedness. He liked Wicked Diana. A lot. He smacked her ass again, a little harder this time.

Now those eyes of hers were electric indigo and burning with raw, open desire.

"Three years," she warned in a low, sultry voice. "Trust me, Clark," she said, moving like a predator up his hard, hungry body, "we need to take it slow, measured." She licked his lips, wet and wonderful. "But it will still be good. So good, I promise."

Even if Diana hadn't been a woman of her word, Clark knew making love to Diana would be beyond good.

"And when I get my stitches out?" Unable to stop himself, Clark grabbed Diana's waist, digging fingers in when she slid over him, her heat and wetness surrounding him.

Clark moaned.

She sat, sinking on to him.

A perfect fit.

Snug, tight, and so far beyond good. And she hadn't even begun moving yet.

"When your stitches come out" –she threw her head back just when she swiveled her hips, taking him in deeper, filling her completely— "we're going to forget gentleness and soft, nice words of love and tenderness." She leaned down, hands on either side of his head, her hips making a slow up-and-down glide on his shaft. "We'll make love tonight, Clark, because that's what we can do and that's what we both need. But later, after this mess with Luthor and Ghul is over," she lifted up then slid down again, forcing a moan from her own lips, "we're going to take each other hard, fast, and repeatedly."

_Hell yes._ He grabbed her waist again, sliding his big hands to her rear, squeezing then holding her to him. He lifted off the bed, working his own hips and driving into her.

Clark knew exactly what Diana was talking about, even if she was too much of a lady to say the word.

She ground herself against him, lifted then did it again.

Grind, lift and repeat.

Grind, lift and repeat.

"Fuck, that feels good." Yeah, that was the word she hadn't said. But they both knew it was the word she was describing, what they would do to each other once they could put everything except each other behind them.

Diana sat up, and then began to love Clark in earnest - careful and cautious, yes, but no less passionate, no less erotic for her tempered pace. If anything, the leisureliness of their lovemaking made the experience all the better for Clark.

He had time to watch Diana, to glory in her beauty, the sensual way her breasts swayed, and the little moans of delight she made whenever Clark held a thrust deep, circling his hips before releasing her for the next spin in their pleasure dance.

But soon, too soon, Clark felt the telltale tension of his pending orgasm. But before he'd let that happen . . .

He found Diana's center and began to stroke.

Eyes that had been closed flew open at the first touch. The bud was hard and erect and, from the deep, satisfied moans coming from Diana, damn sensitive.

She rocked into his hand, grinding against him, harder and faster. She was close. So was Clark.

Faster.

Faster.

His fingers.

Her hips.

Harder.

Harder.

His fingers.

Her hips.

"Yes, Clark, there."

He was fighting, so was she. Fighting to hold off his orgasm until she came, so was she. Diana wanted to come, he could see it, sense it in the way she worked him, the way she clenched around him, the way she dug knees into the bed and begged him to "don't stop."

So Clark didn't.

He didn't.

And she came.

And he still didn't stop, couldn't stop until he knew she couldn't come any longer, until her body was weak and aching from her release, until her sex clenched him until he could do nothing but follow Diana into mind-blowing oblivion.

So Clark did.

And it was glorious, every bit as good as Diana had promised. _Better._

_Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

"So," Diana said, her breathing, like his own, finally back to normal, "do you still want to play chess, checkers, or cards?" With her back to him and Clark snuggled up behind her, he couldn't see her face but that didn't mean he couldn't hear the laughter in her voice. "Or we could still watch a movie. I know how you Kent boys are fond of your movies."

"Or," Clark said, pinching her bottom, "we could stay here, just like this – naked and smelling of sex."

Diana chuckled, sexy and throaty. "Or we could do that." She wiggled that cute bottom of hers against him, igniting sparks that hadn't truly cooled in the twenty minutes they'd been laying in each other's arms, quietly basking in what they'd just done.

"Again, Diana? A little greedy, aren't you?"

Clark reached behind him to the nightstand, finding what he was looking for then turning back to Diana, his temptress.

"Three years," Clark whispered in her ear, "I'm just as greedy."

And ready.

And hard.

He slipped the condom on, glanced at the clock and smiled. They had hours yet. Hours to make love, hours to pretend the world consisted of only the two of them and their ravenous appetite for each other, hours to hold and be held, hours to just be Clark and Diana.

In love.

Making love.

Forever more.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	42. Chapter 41: Point of No Return

**Chapter 41: POINT OF NO RETURN**

**Gotham City, Gotham Inn and Suites**

**Three Hours Ago**

**Part 1**

As soon as the hotel room door closed behind them, Clark had Diana pinned to the wall, mouth covering hers with a desperate hunger one week in the making. One week of wanting and needing with no outlet. One week of lusting and going to bed alone and unsatisfied. One week of absolute torture.

Diana moaned into his mouth, an encouraging sound that only stoked the fire burning between them.

He had to have her.

Mouth slid to rapid, pulsing neck. Clark kissed, open-mouthed and slowly.

Diana sucked in a breath.

He did it again, adding his tongue and licking, moving lower to her collarbone. Hands gripped waist, quickly tugging shirt from skirt. Then came the pearl buttons, one by one until Diana's shirt was undone, the heavy swells of her white lace encased breasts on display to Clark's gluttonous eyes.

She was spectacular, a true classical beauty.

He sucked her, through the thin silk layer of her bra. Mouth wide, he took, claimed, devoured. It wasn't enough. Unclasping the front hook, Clark shoved the bra to the side. She tasted even better now, hot skin to wet mouth, exploring tongue to ripe nipples.

Diana whimpered, one hand going to his hair, digging in, the other to his shoulder, holding him tightly, arching against his mouth and giving him more of herself.

Accepting the offer, he palmed her breasts, lifting them even more into his mouth. They were so soft, so big, so smooth and utterly luscious. And Clark couldn't slow down, didn't want to slow down.

Since their first night together, in this very hotel room, Clark hadn't been able to get the taste and feel of Diana out of his mind. Nor the sounds she made when he pleasured her—different yet familiar from what he'd remembered when they were together ten years ago.

But the work week had come, and Diana had been inordinately busy. She'd spent most of her time reviewing the information on the USB she'd found in the nursery. In a way, it was like raising Bruce from the grave. His spirit and Diana's mission was once again center stage, so there had been no more overnights, no more lovemaking.

And Clark had missed her, missed the closeness they'd shared that went beyond the physical act of becoming lovers. Yet Clark couldn't fault Diana. She hadn't pretended as if their special night hadn't occurred, nor did she act as if she wasn't as equally affected by their night together. And neither did she fail to include him in her planning sessions with the Furies. Just the contrary, Diana had treated Clark as an equal, asking him questions and listening to his opinions.

Mouth reclaimed Diana's lips, a deep tongue kiss that left Clark breathless but wanting more. Large hands tunneled under dark blue skirt, found satiny soft panties and pulled.

They fell, slipping from hips, to thighs, to ankles where Diana stepped out of them.

With a matching ardor, Diana tugged at Clark's pants, yanking belt, button, and zipper until she had them undone. Pants fell to ankles and Clark didn't bother taking them off. No, he was too busy palming Diana's enticing, bare bottom.

Lifting her off her feet, Clark suppressed the tiniest groan of pain. His stitches had been removed by Diana's personal physician yesterday. And while he was feeling much better, Clark was not at a hundred percent.

No matter.

Diana wrapped long legs around his waist.

Hard and beyond ready, Clark sank inside, joining them on the most basic, most primal level.

"Yes," she moaned, then began to rock against him. Eyes closed, mouth sought and found Clark's.

And there they were, making love against the door, too impatient to fully undress or to use the bed no more than twenty-five feet away.

Neither of them cared.

And Clark was giving Diana exactly what she said she'd wanted a week ago. Hard. Fast. _Fucking._

Hell, yes, and it was so damn good, her strong legs gripping him as tightly as her sex. One hand was wrapped securely around her waist, the other against the door and beside her head, holding them in place. Clark's own legs and hips were moving—up, down, up, down, up, down.

"Clark, god, Clark. That's so, so—" A guttural moan ripped through Diana, her words lost to the pleasure whipping through her.

That was good, because words and listening were so beyond Clark. All he could do was feel and drive into Diana with an uncontrollable intensity that had him grunting.

And Diana coming.

The door creaked, legs burned, heart soared, and his orgasm rocketed through him.

With effort, Clark lowered Diana to the floor. She continued to hold on to him, her legs probably as weak as his own.

"That was . . . that was . . . not exactly what I was expecting." Diana's words were labored breaths against Clark's mouth.

With the urgency to be inside her now passed, Clark said sheepishly, "Sorry, I couldn't wait. I guess that wasn't very gentlemanly of me."

Diana only smiled back at him, the look lustful and not the least bit put-off. "There's a time and place for playing the gentleman." She kissed him, his jaw, his neck, the tantalizing spot right below his right ear. "And there's a time and place for the rogue who knows what he wants and takes it, because he knows the woman wants it just as much."

"A rogue, huh?" Clark brushed stray tendrils of curls that had fallen out of Diana's braid behind an ear. "So, ah, if you liked that I have a few other ideas."

She laughed. "I just bet you do."

Realizing he was probably crushing the poor woman, Clark stood straight then moved back, giving Diana room to fix her clothes and find the panties he'd unceremoniously discarded.

But she only used the space to remove all of her clothing. Hanging the shirt and skirt in the closest, Diana moved to the bed, turned the covers down, and then crawled in.

He did the same with his pants and shirt before storing his boxers and undershirt in the drawer with Diana's bra and panties, and then climbed into bed beside her.

Like always, Diana cuddled next to him, her head going to his uninjured shoulder, a hand to the center of his chest, fingers idly playing with the hair there.

Then a bolt of lightning hit him. They hadn't used protection. _Shit._ The last time they went through six condoms, one of them always faithful to make sure Clark was suited up. But today, this morning, in their haste, they'd forgotten, which wasn't like either of them. Diana who, when they were dating then living together, had been on the pill, never missed a day. Clark doubted Diana was on any kind of birth control now. If she had been, she just would've said so last week. But she'd said nothing, which meant the condoms they'd used were necessary.

Not wanting to ruin the mood but feeling guilty, Clark spoke up. "I didn't think to use a condom, Diana. I should've used a condom."

He'd thought she'd be upset—at him, at herself. The last thing Diana would want was an unexpected, unplanned pregnancy when she was still trying to figure out her past in an effort to define her present and plan for her future. What Clark didn't expect was a nonchalant shrug and a, "It doesn't matter. I'm sure nothing will come of it."

"What do you mean?"

She said nothing, just continued to play with his chest hair.

He stared down at her and asked again. "What do you mean by that?"

"It doesn't matter, and I don't want to talk about it."

She sounded irritated. Yet Clark also heard a timbre of resigned disappointment in her voice. He didn't understand it. They were both still young, in their early thirties and healthy. Despite Clark's recent health concern, his virility wasn't impacted.

Clark stroked a shoulder, her back, both quite tense.

Maybe it had taken Diana and Bruce a while to conceive. It had been that way with Clark and Lois. After six months of trying, Clark had begun to consider the possibility that something was wrong. But then Lois had given him the good news, ridding him of his fears. Such things were typical, or so he'd read.

He kissed the top of her head, feeling more the gentleman than the rogue right now. "I just want to protect you. I'll always protect you, Diana."

"I know." She lifted herself onto her right elbow, left arm still on his chest. "We will protect each other."

She was referring to her plan. The crazy as a fox and dangerous as a viper plan.

"We have two hours before the board meeting begins."

"That's good because I have two condoms in my wallet."

She raised an eyebrow, the desire back in Diana's eyes, voice. "Only two?"

**Part 2**

**Wayne Industries**

They were late. Diana had known they would be. The minute Clark had joined her in the shower saying, "I found another one behind a twenty," then had turned her around, her back to his front, one of his favorite positions, Diana had known they wouldn't make it out of the hotel room any time soon.

And they'd lingered, Clark's strong arms on her hips, pushing into her with long, sure strokes. Taking his time, he'd cradled her breasts, rubbing and twisting her nipples until they'd hardened to aching peaks.

She'd wanted his mouth on them then. Wanted to glory in the sensation of his warm mouth and lecherous tongue doing all the naughty things she'd dreamed of for the last week.

For her body, for her hormones, it had been a foul eight days of self-denial and delayed pleasure. But when that pleasure had come, when Clark had claimed her against the hotel room door, desiring only to slake their urges, Diana had reveled in the unbridled act. So much so that they'd forgotten to use a condom, but, like Diana had told Clark, it didn't matter. Nothing would come of the unprotected sex they'd had.

Diana entered the board room first, followed by Clark. Her entire board was there, including Phillipus and Martha Wayne, whom Diana invited for the special meeting. They were as much a part of this as any other in the room, especially Martha.

Talking stopped, eyes rose. No one spoke but everyone seemed to take Clark and Diana's measure, and, unfortunately, arrived at the same conclusion. Knowing smiles began with the men, all except Vic who was far too sweet to let on he knew why they were late. Then a few of the women smiled, notably Donna, Dinah, and Mera. Mari nodded; a short gesture Diana was sure no one saw but her. Then there were the mothers, who, thankfully, did or said nothing to betray their thoughts.

Phillipus, well, Diana's general had already made her feelings known the morning after Clark and Diana had returned to the manor. "Thank god you finally got some, maybe now you'll stop picking fights with Barda and working the hell out of us when we spar."

There were two seats left at the long table. One at the head, Diana's, the other next to Arthur, which Clark claimed after pulling out Diana's chair for her.

Diana gazed at her colleagues, her friends, her family, her Corporate League. She loved them dearly, wouldn't be here today without each and every one of them. They all supplied her heart and soul with gifts that were unique to them. And they'd traveled far together. Hurt, cried, and fell together. Then they'd stood, walked, and fought together.

As one.

This mission, the ultimate thus far, would be no different. Clark Kent, in his youthful wisdom, once wrote in an unpublished book of poems Diana kept in her heart and mind, were three lines of foreshadowing. "Together we stand. Together we fall. Together we win, and winners take all."

"'Never doubt," Diana began, with a quote from Margaret Meade, the one from Clark meant only for her, "that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.' We may have been forged in fire, but we've never allowed the flames to touch or control us. We are the masters of our own fate, and we will do what must be done."

"To protect." John.

"Yes."

"To serve." Vic.

"Yes."

"To guide." Arthur.

"Yes."

"To fight." Dinah.

"Yes, that's who we are, shields and swords that cannot be broken."

"Because we have honor and truth on our side." Donna.

"Yes."

"And justice." Martha.

"And love." Clark.

Yes and yes. They understood. _We're ready._

Nodding to Vic, Diana watched as the man pulled up one of the pages from Bruce's flash drive. Once arriving at Wayne Manor yesterday, Diana provided each of them with a copy, requesting that they review in preparation for today's meeting.

The picture on display on the flat screen was of Lex Luthor and Ra's al Ghul shaking hands and smiling. Diana had no idea how Bruce had managed to get such a shot. No more than she knew how he'd obtained any of the other damning evidence against the two, including dirt on Ghul's League of Assassins. But he had, reminding Diana of the genius that had once been Bruce Wayne. A trait she always admired, respected, and loved.

"Now that we're all up to speed, Diana, I assume you have a plan. And I hope," Donna's eyes settled on Clark who sat opposite her sister, "that it involves major payback for that bitch Talia for what she did to Clark." Donna's manicured fingers balled into fists. "I swear, if it weren't for Mother, I would've gone after her myself when we arrived an hour ago."

Diana understood and endorsed the sentiment. But Diana had restrained her own urge to fling Talia out the nearest window, and was thankful her normally hot-headed sister had done the same. Perhaps the cool, calm Victor Stone was rubbing off on Donna. One could only hope.

"Talia's just as guilty, just as complicit in Bruce's death and insider trading as Luthor and Ghul. She gets no pass, but I have assigned her comeuppance to you, Donna."

Her sister smiled, wickedly. "Your plan is sounding good already."

Since they were already speaking of Talia, Diana decided to outline her plans for the traitor first. When she'd concluded, no one objected. And Donna's smile grew even more devilish. Then she laughed. "You have the best mean streak, Diana. Almost as good as Mother's."

Hippolyta glared.

Donna smartly shut up.

"What about the rest of us, Diana?" Mari asked.

Diana's gaze fell first on Arthur and Mera, then John and Mari, and finally on Ollie and Dinah. They looked to Diana expectedly, trust in their eyes.

"In two days, like we do at the end of every monthly meeting, I want you to go home. Once there, be the connected, influential business people that you are."

Comprehension first gleamed in Ollie's eyes, the others slowly following, until Diana knew they all understood her plan. In less than two weeks, all that Luthor loved and worked so hard to build would be worthless. The Corporate Leaguers had all the ammunition to now make that possible.

But that was only the beginning for Luthor. Diana wasn't about to let him off that easily. She shared the rest with the assembled group, revising her plan here and there as idea after idea flowed.

Then the conversation turned to Ra's al Ghul, which was the reason Diana had asked Phillipus to join them. This was her territory – Phillipus and the Furies. Diana ceded the floor to the general.

"No matter what happens with Talia and Luthor, none of you, particularly Diana, will be safe until Ghul and his assassins are dealt with. As you all know, they are wanted by every major law enforcement agency around the world. The problem is that they hide extremely well."

"After today's press conference," Diana picked up, "they won't be able to hide for much longer."

"What do you mean?" Mera probed.

Diana looked to Clark. This part had been his idea. He should be the one to explain.

As if he were a board member born, Clark expertly stepped in. "Diana is virtually a celebrity in this city, and after her D.C. speech, around the country. People trust and have faith in her. They believe that she cares about them. They want to help. We should make it easier for them to do just that."

"How?" Mera again.

"Diana is an eloquent and moving public speaker. We will use that. Her story, while sad, both angers and motivates people. It's tragic but her life, her work since then has not been a tragedy. She's a survivor. She gives people hope. And with hope comes the spark to make a difference, to control one's own fate."

"I see," Mera said. "Diana will appeal to the public's sense of justice, sense of right and wrong."

"Yes, and they will do the work for us. Barbara Gordon, owner of Oracle International, who've Diana and I have already spoken with, will create an advanced Justice League website where people will be able to call or login their sightings. The program will sift through the information, omit impossibilities, triangulate the viable feedback, categorize them, and then narrow down the data into the most likely locations."

"Once we have a list, that's where me and the Furies come in." Phillipus looked to Dinah. "And where we could use your Birds of Prey."

Dinah pointed to her iPad. "I'm already compiling a list of my best students. They'll be ready when you need them."

"Good. Anyway, the goal is to scare them from their hiding holes. Or simply go in and pull their asses out. Either way, the local authorities will be given gift wrapped assassins for Labor Day, no work needed on their part, all care of Wayne Industries and the Justice League."

Diana knew it wouldn't be as simple as that. The League of Assassins were a vicious, vile bunch. They wouldn't come easily. Blood would be shed. There was no help for that, but Diana hoped and prayed no one would be killed, which was the reason why she'd decided to send her Furies in after the assassins instead of passing the information along to the local police. The FBI or CIA could also handle it, but there would be too much bureaucratic tape that they would move too slowly. Once the assassins were in custody, she knew they would and could take it from there.

She only hoped this part of her plan would also dredge up the elusive Ra's al Ghul. If not . . . well, what Diana had planned for Talia would surely bring Daddy to Gotham. And once here, Diana had allies who would be waiting to bring "The Demon's Head" down.

For several minutes, the room was quiet, every one needing time to absorb what lay before them. It was almost done. No one had balked at her plan, slight suggestions only. Good ones but nothing more. Maybe, just maybe, she could slip the last part by them with the same amount of quiet acceptance.

Then Diana caught Hippolyta staring at her and knew her mother's passive agreement was over. Her mother's words of, "Tell us the rest of your plan, daughter," confirming what Diana already knew. _Hippoltya Prince knows her daughters too well._

"Don't think for a minute that I believe your plan doesn't involve the men who killed Bruce and Brina."

All eyes turned to Diana, including Clark's, who knew exactly what she had in mind for those bastards. They'd argued, but Clark had known it to be futile. Diana would not be moved. Her mother would just have to understand. _Or not._

"After what I have planned for Luthor, he will want revenge. And I'm going to provide him with the opportunity to take it."

Hippolyta's eyes darkened, so did Donna's. They glared at Diana.

"So we're back to that?" Hard. Low.

"Yes, Mother." Her voiced mirrored Hippolyta's. They were too much alike, which didn't bode well for the remainder of the meeting. Yet before Diana could adjourn, all except Donna and Clark rose and left the room. She didn't blame them. Arguments between the Prince women weren't for the faint of heart.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Diana?" Hippolyta yelled a second after the door closed. "Luthor, that lowlife vermin, belongs in jail. You can put him there. Today. But no, you won't do that because you want to give him time to send those brutes after you."

Diana pushed from the table and stood. "If I don't, those murdering bastards will get away. Is that what you want? Do you want me to let the man who killed my baby get away?"

"You know she doesn't, Diana. Mother wants those assholes caught just as much as you do. But she doesn't want to risk losing you in the process. We won't lose you. We came too close before."

Donna also stood, her voice calm but no less vehement than Diana's and Hippolyta's.

Their mother still sat, age and worry lines giving Diana pause. God, she didn't want to fight with her mother and sister. She knew they loved her, were the ones who dragged her from the edge when she'd wanted nothing more than to die . . . by her own hand. A shameful low point in her life she hadn't had the courage to share with Clark.

Diana walked around the table and sat on the other side of her mother.

Donna also sat.

"It's the point of no return, Mother."

She shook her head.

"Yes, it is. I'll never be free as long as those men are. I've tried to forget them. I've tried to let it go and move on. But I can't. I simply can't. The guilt won't let me."

"You mean your anger won't let you."

"That, too, but not only anger, Mother. Bruce and Brina deserve justice. That night, I could do nothing to help them. Now I can. I can at least give them peace." Diana touched her mother's cheek and wiped away a single tear. "_I_ need peace. I need to know I've done all in my power for my lost family."

"Let me and Donna— Don't shake your head, sweetheart. You can't do this on your own. If you won't listen to reason then at least accept our help."

"I have Clark."

Hippolyta swung her gaze in Clark's direction. He still quietly sat on the other side of the table. His face set in resolute, grim lines.

"He's only two weeks from death's door himself, Diana. No offense, but Clark Kent's no Superman."

"That's where you're wrong, Mother. Clark is all the Superman I need."

"So, just the two of you?" Donna asked, her eyes just as assessing, just as disbelieving as Hippolyta's when she posed the question to Clark.

He shook his head. "Not entirely. We've made arrangements, but I'll be there. I'll make sure nothing happens to Diana." His gaze shifted to her. "And that Diana doesn't go too far."

Another one of their arguments. She'd lost that one.

"You mean you'll try to keep my daughter from killing those monsters."

"I mean I'll be there to remind her why she doesn't need or want to kill them."

"Maybe you should let her."

"You don't mean that, Hippolyta."

Diana knew her mother did not want Diana to kill the bastards, which wasn't the same as Hippolyta not wanting them dead.

"Promise me right now, Clark Kent, that you will keep my baby safe. She and Donna are all I have in this world. So you promise me."

It was a promise that wasn't in Clark's control to keep. The request was unreasonable, borne of a mother's helplessness, fear, and unconditional love. Diana understood, but Clark couldn't make that promise.

"I promise, Hippolyta. On Jonathan Kent's grave, I promise I will keep Diana safe."

Diana was speechless.

Hippolyta was relieved.

And Donna, well, Donna stared disapprovingly at the three of them. "This had better work, or I'm kicking all your asses if it doesn't."

Hippolyta slumped in her chair murmuring, "In for a penny, in for a pound."

Diana couldn't agree more.

Her eyes locked on Clark's, and the man wasn't happy. Diana had gotten everything she'd wanted from today's board meeting, and what she'd gotten amounted to a fist full of trust, hope, and danger.

But like she'd told her mother, after today, there would be no turning back.

Clark reached across the expanse of the table. Diana did as well. But the table was too wide, the tips of their fingers close but not touching, not entwined, not quite a secure couple.

And in some ways, didn't that define their current relationship?

_The point of no return. _Diana and Clark had passed that point when he'd lowered his head and kissed her scar, bringing tears to her eyes and promise to her soul. Now they had to find a way to move forward, not just close but touching in every possible way.

He smiled at her, Clark's dimple chin pronounced and unfathomably sexy. Then he mouthed the one admission that would forever melt her heart and give her courage. _I love you. _

Diana's heart skipped a happy beat, thumping past the point of no return.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	43. Chapter 42: Moral Crusade

**Chapter 42: Strategy 1: Moral Crusade**

Strategy 1: Transform your war into a crusade. Create an atmosphere of fighting for something noble—a cause or a need. Respect your troops.

* * *

**Gotham City, Wayne Industries**

"Are you coming?"

Talia looked up from her desk computer. The ever-smiling, too plump and cheery Sasha stood on the other side of her desk, with, of course, a smile on her chubby cheeseburger face and a diet soda in her hand.

Talia plastered on a fake smile. The one she used when she had to speak to one of the annoying Wayne Industries' employees, especially ones like Sasha who was a bubbly, I-eat-salads-and-drink-diet-sodas-at-work-but-gorg e-my-body-with-fried chicken-and-fries at home. The blonde was one of Diana's accountants. To Talia's eternal frustration, Sasha had decided it was her personal responsibility to befriend the new staffer. And, months later, the woman still hadn't gotten a clue that no one would willingly befriend a low self-esteem, math geek with "glandular issues."

"What are you talking about, Sasha?"

She smiled down at Talia, which, admittedly, was the only pretty thing about the woman. "Haven't you heard?"

Clearly Talia had not. Why did people insist on asking stupid questions when the answer was painfully obvious? "No, so why don't you just tell me?"

"I swear, once you get on that computer, it's like you don't have time for anything else. I've never seen a more focused, more dedicated Executive Assistant. Diana is lucky to have you."

Now that garnered Sasha Donovan a genuine smile from Talia. Luthor had initially doubted her ability to spy on Diana Wayne without getting caught. His lack of faith had chafed. But she'd proven him wrong, had used her months at Wayne Industries to gather important organization secrets, with Diana none the wiser.

Talia nearly laughed at how easy her duplicity had actually been. Diana wasn't nearly as bright and perceptive as people, like Sasha, thought she was. _And Bruce had the gall to leave me for her. What a fool. He got exactly what he deserved._

And the Wayne computer had become Talia's best friend. Early on in her employ, she'd managed to learn Diana's private username and password. As owner and CEO, Diana had access to all Wayne Industries' records, meaning, in turn, so did Talia. She had to always be careful, though, logging on during times when Diana was out of the office and she had unfettered access to her desktop computer. Someone like Victor Stone could easily, if so inclined, track the virtual footprints back to Talia. Yet he, or someone else, would have to first suspect her, which no one did. _Blind, too trusting idiots._

"Anyway," Sasha took an indelicate gulp of her canned soda, "Dr. Wayne has called a press conference." She glanced at the clock on the wall behind Talia. "It should begin any minute now. She sent an email to everyone inviting us to watch live or from our desks."

Talia hadn't received an email, or at least she didn't think she had. And why in the world would Diana call a press conference? Hell, the woman hadn't been in the office for two weeks. Talia knew she would be in today, however, since she held her board meetings like clockwork. And Talia had learned so much these past two weeks while Diana was out, tending, from what she heard through the grapevine, to Clark Kent.

That was a sore spot for Talia. Kent should've been dead not living in the lap of luxury with Diana at the Wayne Manor. _Sorry, incompetent fool. How hard can it be to kill a hick writer? _Apparently, quite difficult since Clark Kent was still breathing and Solomon Grundy was in jail.

"Where is the press conference being held?"

Finishing off her drink, Sasha tossed the can into the wastebasket beside Talia's desk. "Down stairs. In front of the building. We're all going."

For the first time in half an hour, Talia noticed she hadn't heard the normal clacking of heels going to and from the bank of elevators, or the mumbling chatter of employees lowering their voices when they passed their boss's outer office. Besides Sasha and Talia, she didn't think anyone else was on the executive floor.

"So, umm, are you coming, Talia?"

Talia stood. She was most definitely going. If Diana was giving an impromptu press conference, she didn't want to miss whatever Diana thought was so important to pull her people from their work. Besides, Luthor would already be upset that Talia hadn't known about the event and given him notice.

Three minutes later, Talia was standing in front of Wayne Industries behind a mob of employees, everyone vying for a spot that would grant them a visual of the diva herself, Diana Wayne.

Moving people aside with elbows and hands, Talia pushed her way forward until she'd eked out a space to the far right where she had a nearly unobstructed view of a horde of lights, flashing bulbs, cameras, reporters, and the everyday Gotham citizen who'd stopped to gawk at all the activity in front of the thirty-story Wayne Building. And in front of at least twenty microphones was the queen bitch herself.

Diana wore a classic, black sheath dress, sleeveless with a thin black belt. Black hair straight and down her back, high heels, and silver dangling earrings gave Diana the image of being both serious and chic. The business skirt and blouse she'd seen Diana wearing when she'd blown into her office in search of a file, this morning, thirty minutes late for her board meeting, were gone. Which, Talia thought with annoyed envy, was a good idea since Diana had appeared as nothing short of a woman who'd just been well fucked. Still, Talia didn't like this, not one tiny bit. Suddenly, she was on edge. A feeling Talia al Ghul detested.

Pulling out her cell phone, Talia sent a single text. _DW is giving a press conference. Check any local news station._

When Talia lifted her head from the phone, she'd noticed everyone had stilled and gone silent. There had to be a good two hundred people in front of the building yet Talia could hear nothing but the random car whizzing by. Even the gregarious Sasha, who, to Talia's surprise, was now standing beside her, was quiet - gray eyes sharp and focused on the woman who'd just begun to speak.

Diana's voice, cool and confident, wafted over the sea of onlookers, a hypnotic cadence that seemed to have all in its grip. All except Talia, who never understood people's fascination and attraction to Diana Wayne. Yet there was something about how she effortlessly captured the crowd's attention. Something undeniable and powerful, a feat that even the pompous Lex Luthor couldn't quite manage as he desperately sought to maneuver his way in the governorship.

But Diana had that _something_. And it was that indescribable part of her that most worried Talia. Humanitarians were like that, galvanizing the masses when others, not even leaders of governments, could get them to move as a collective, committed force without the normal inducements of god, glory, or gold.

And that was Diana Wayne. Talia knew, as she watched the woman, waiting to hear about whatever bleeding heart issue she was about to embroil her company in.

"The fight for justice against corruption is never easy," Diana began. "It never has been and never will be. It exacts a toll on our self, our families, our friends, and especially our children. In the end, I believe the price we pay is well worth holding onto our dignity."

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

Talia snorted. Diana hadn't even gotten to the heart of her message and the ass kissing fools were already cheering her on, adding to her massive ego.

"The Justice League is a people's league, a people's movement for justice. It belongs to you, the ignored, the oppressed, the proud, the brave. Know that you hold the power to introduce peace into moments of violent decadence. At this very moment we are in a fight for our lives, our very existence and the just society we want and deserve. There are enemies out there who have and will continue to violate the peace and sanctity of all we hold dear unless we show them we are not afraid."

The crowd fairly vibrated around Talia, electrical pulses of suppressed energy. She looked to her left, spied Sasha. Enraptured. Sasha was enraptured, her eyes glowing with a heat Talia knew to be hope.

And she was surrounded by Wayne employees who now looked exactly as Sasha did. It made Talia uncomfortable, the vibe dangerous because it was focused, localized. This wasn't the speech she'd expected from Diana. The undercurrent was not at all conducive to a simple humanitarian effort on the part of a woman who had more money than god.

"Are we afraid?" Diana asked, her voice thrumming with passion.

The crowd responded with a resounding, "No!"

"Will we be cowed?"

"_No!"_

"Will we stand up?"

"_Yes."_

"Will we be moved?"

"_No!"_

"No, we will not be moved. No longer. We will no longer tolerate the predators among us. They have fed on our carcasses long enough."

Diana lifted an object from where it was on the podium. Talia watched as Diana raised her arm, showing what appeared to be an eight and a half by eleven sheet of paper.

Talia swore. From this angle, she couldn't see what Diana held in front of her.

"This man is wanted by the FBI for crimes against humanity. For crimes against the people, people like you, people like me. He's also wanted by other governments, chaos and corruption, a deadly combination that must be routed from our midst." Diana reached down then showed another piece of paper to the crowd.

Dammit, what in the hell was going on up there? Talia needed to see, needed to know. Ignoring the huffs and complaints, she pushed her way through the crowd, circling and bullying until she found the western steps to the building and descended. Diana was still talking, still displaying the papers to the crowd.

Finally, Talia reached the bottom of the steps. She could now look up at Diana instead of viewing her from the back. A few tall men still blocked most of Diana but at least Talia was in position to see the Jumbotron. An outrageously expensive large-screen television perched several feet below the name of the building.

Skirting to her left, just a bit, Talia raised one hand over her eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun. Leaning forward and squinting, Talia finally saw what Diana held in her hands.

She gasped, colored, and then hastily glanced around. No one was looking at her. No, everyone's eyes were glued to the images before them. Images of Ra's al Ghul and the League of Assassins.

"Ra's al Ghul is a blight on society. The lowest kind of criminal and mastermind," Diana said, holding his picture aloft for the whole world to see.

Cameras snapped, from professional photographers and cell phone users alike.

Talia's phone vibrated. Yanking it from her pocket, she read the message. _What in the hell is this? We need to talk._

Yeah, they did, but Talia would be damned if she went to Luthor while he was in a snit. The man was liable to do anything. And while she hated to admit it, Talia was a little afraid of him. But it was her father, not her lover who was being skewered alive by Diana Wayne.

"He and his League of Assassins are responsible for countless deaths around the world, which is why they are on the FBI's Most Wanted list. But the FBI isn't everywhere. They aren't where you are. They don't know what you know, see what you see, hear what you hear. Somewhere, out there, where these men and women are hiding, is a Justice Leaguer who has seen them. You have seen them, you just didn't know it."

Diana made sure the picture of Talia's friends, even her sister, was facing the eyes of the cameras. It made Talia sick. Her image could've been there with the others, a target on her back. Which, Talia thought with renewed venom for Bruce's widow, was exactly what Diana had just put on her father's and the League's backs.

"They live among you, hiding in plain sight. If you have seen them, if you know them, please, I beg of you, do not confront them. At exactly midnight Eastern Standard Time, the Justice League of America and the Justice League International websites will go live. The pictures of these killers will be posted. Look at them, carefully, print and post, if you must."

Diana lowered her hands, placing the pictures back on the podium. Then she lifted her eyes, beseeching yet commanding.

"The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists who are dedicated to justice, peace, and unity. So I ask of you, my friends, my brothers and sisters in peace and justice, don't let the vile few corrupt, control, and harm the many. Let us know where they live, where they work, where they play. Use the websites. All tips are anonymous. If we work together, we will rid your neighborhoods of the parasites who feed off of your fears and innocence."

The vibrations from the crowd crackled now, the tension and energy a tsunami of emotions ready to be unleashed and set free. They were all with Diana, maggots with too much idealism and not enough sense of self-preservation.

Talia had to get out of there. Diana had created a mob mentality that was being televised country and worldwide. Not that she had asked them to do anything physical. She hadn't. But she had energized the masses into a single-minded moral crusade, which, in some respects, was worse.

Talia turned . . . and ran smack into Donna Prince. Donna made one too many Prince women, in her opinion. Talia hated the monthly board meetings. During those few days, she had to smile and play the meek Executive Assistant even more because Donna and Hippolyta Prince always seemed to take special note of her. Their eyes were far more scrutinizing and discerning than Diana's. It had been clear to Talia, from day one, that Donna did not like her.

That was fine, because the feeling was most assuredly mutual.

"Where are you going, Talia? Aren't you going to listen to my sister finish her speech? It's quite good so far, don't you think?"

No, she did not think it was good. And she had no interest in listening to Diana set the populace against her father and sister as if they were witches to be hunted, strung up, and burned at the stake.

Donna looped her arm in Talia's and turned her back around. She gritted her teeth, forced to listen to the closing of Diana's wretched speech.

"Let us unite in this most noble of endeavors. Let us embark on this moral crusade together, because unity is a tremendous strength that grows through sharing together, praying together, suffering together, and working together."

Diana gestured to a pendant that hung from her neck. One of the cameras zoomed in on the jewelry. Curiosity got the better of Talia and she lifted her eyes once more to the Jumbotron. There, hanging from a gold necklace were two letters: JL. _Justice League. Damn her to hell._

Then red, black, yellow, and green balloons, which Talia hadn't noticed before, were released. They blanketed the sky, everyone's gazes going to them. The eyes of the cameras included.

The awestruck crowd gasped when the first balloon popped, then another, and another still, until all the balloons were bursting. And from the explosion of balloons came a shower of JL pendants, raining down on the people below.

The crowd raised hands and caught the pendants. There had to be hundreds of them. _Everywhere. They're everywhere._

One fell on Talia's shoulder, her hair, beside her feet. Donna plucked the one from her hair, gave Talia a smile she didn't know whether to believe, and then attached the pendant to Talia's shirt.

Talia fought the frown and the overwhelming urge to smack the hell out of Donna Prince.

"Now you're an official member of the Justice League." Donna raised her arm, a charm bracelet hung from it. The letters JL dangled between a star and a crescent moon. "So am I. I guess that makes us sisters, of sorts."

The hell if it did.

Talia bit her tongue sure she drew blood.

Donna looped her arm in Talia's again then said confidentially, "Between you and me, my sister takes this Justice League business way too seriously."

They began walking, passing Wayne employees scrambling for the suddenly covetous gold JL pendants. Their admiration and blind faith in Diana Wayne was nearly as revolting as the woman herself, yet not as horrible as the conversation she'd expected to have with her father. And she knew he would be calling her, very, very soon.

"But you know Diana; once she sinks her teeth into something she's more Pit Bull than businesswoman." Donna shrugged, clearly not understanding the gravity of her words. "Ra's al Ghul is a piece of work, though. You know, a real scum of the earth. And did you catch the crazy ass whiskers on the guy and his clothing?" Donna laughed. "I mean, who in the hell wears a cape with a suit?" More laughter.

Talia yanked her arm from Donna's, done with the entire conversation. She wouldn't stand by and let some spoiled, airhead brat disrespect her father. Ra's damn sure would never make Father of the Year but family was family, and the Prince wench was way out of line.

"Anyway," Donna said, oblivious to Talia's growing anger, "I'm sure he'll be caught in no time. If he's not careful, one of those vigilante type guys will save some government a lot of money and simply kill the cretin. No trial. No fuss. No muss."

Donna brushed her hands together, as if she were dislodging dirt from her palms, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

The crowd was now dispersing, most returning to Wayne Industries, others continuing on to wherever they had been going when they'd decided to stop, jumping on Diana Wayne's fuckin' Justice League bandwagon.

Talia said nothing. There were simply no words to express her outrage, her barely bottled rage. But she had to hold it together. If she lost it now, she would be of no use to her father when he most needed her. "_Keep your friends close and your enemies closer_," he'd told her from childhood. And that's what she had to continue to do. No matter how much it would cost her.

Donna gazed down at Talia, and then said with all the haughtiness of a queen ordering about a peasant girl, "Why are you still out here, Talia? Shouldn't you be back at that little desk of yours, seeing to the needs of your boss? After that speech, I'm sure Diana's parched and would like a drink of water. You do take care of water and coffee runs, don't you, Talia?"

Gritting her teeth, Talia woodenly nodded.

"Good, then when you get upstairs be sure to use one of Diana's crystal glasses for the water. Oh, and make sure you give her the Fiji spring water. That's her favorite. She can't stand tap or Aquafina."

Fists balled, Talia stomped away from the, yes, Prima Donna. And if she weren't mistaken, Talia could've sworn she heard the bitch chuckle.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	44. Chapter 43: Team Warfare

**Chapter 43: Strategy 2: Team Warfare**

**Strategy 2:** Look for people to fill your voids of knowledge, rely on them.

* * *

**Star City, Queen Industries**

Oliver Queen wanted to do more, much, much more. This Luthor and Ghul business had left a sour taste in his mouth. Since when did men send killers after pregnant women? As far as Ollie was concerned, no real man would ever do such a thing. But they had, and Diana had lost a child as a result.

Fists balled. He would give anything to take the assholes out himself, show them how real men took care of business. But Diana had asked him and the others to fight using different methods. The kicking ass part would come later and would be done by those more skilled than Ollie. Still, perhaps he should've paid Lex Luthor a little foot to ass visit before Ollie and Dinah boarded the return flight to Star City.

Well, Ollie reminded himself with a contented grin, at least Dinah's Birds of Prey would get some action. Before leaving Gotham, Dinah, Phillipus, and Diana had huddled together and finalized a final strike list. He'd glimpsed a few of the names, and from what he'd seen, it was a beautifully dangerous list of hardcore kickass women.

If he couldn't do the ass kicking himself, he could at least live vicariously through the stories he knew he would hear.

"Ah, well," he cracked his knuckles and began to type on his laptop, "time to put the Queen charm into action."

Logging into Skype and dialing, Ollie waited. It wasn't long before the person on the other end picked up.

"Right on time, Mr. Queen," the older woman drawled. "I do like a punctual man."

Young ones too, Ollie knew. The gray-haired woman was a cougar if he'd ever seen one. He'd learned, on good authority, that the woman made her lovers call her "Granny Goodness" while engaged in the sweaty deed of pleasuring her.

Ollie shuddered at the revolting thought. Despite the woman's efforts to lure him to her bed, Ollie had no taste for wrinkled, old woman flesh, no matter how "good" she proclaimed herself. Besides, Ollie had learned the lesson of infidelity the hard way. He'd given up such juvenile pursuits. He wouldn't risk his marriage and Dinah ever again.

Goodness reached down and patted the big, black head of her massive hound, Mercy. The gigantic dog was always about, apparently, the old woman's best friend.

Goodness' eyes lifted. All shrewd businesswoman stared back at him over the webcam. "Tell me, Queen, why should I care about LexCorp? It's one of many companies I have stock in. Luthor is a smart businessman."

True, Goodness did not own much stock in LexCorp, but that wasn't the reason why Ollie had contacted her. He'd contacted her because the woman was a powerhouse. If Diana ever lost her own goodness and sense of justice, Goodness could rightly claim her as a long lost daughter. The woman was a cougar in more ways than one. She made things happen. People did either as she said or got the hell out of her way.

"Trust me, Goodness, when the shit with Luthor hits the fan, you're gonna want to be as far away from him as possible. Not only will you lose money, the FBI and IRS may just decide to look into the business dealings of all of LexCorp's stockholders."

Cold eyes narrowed. Ollie knew that would be her reaction. While he didn't know all of Goodness business dealings, he did know they weren't all legitimate or tax deductible.

"You're correct. But I assume you didn't warn me out of the goodness of your heart, Queen. Because I know your heart only loves three things—that pretty, blonde wife of yours, Star City, and Queen Industries. So tell me, what is the fee you will extract from me?"

Ollie twisted one end of his long, blonde mustache and considered the woman. She was good at cutting through the bullshit and getting straight to the point. Good. He liked that in a business partner. And, for this one thing, they would become partners.

"After this conversation, I assume you'll dump your LexCorp stock."

"In a New York minute."

Perfect. "I need you to get as many of the other stockholders to do the same."

Her laugh was husky and not at all attractive. "You must think highly of me to presume I can convince others to dump stock in a company that has made them so much money."

"You saw the documents I sent you." Ollie had forwarded Goodness a couple of pages. No way would he give her the entire file. "In a week or two, those stocks will be as popular as a two dollar bill, and those stockholders will lose a whole helluva lot more money than if they get out now."

"So the rumors are true, then?"

"What rumors?"

Another husky laugh. "Don't play dumb, Queen. You know - rumors about Bruce Wayne. Like you, he came to me three years ago, asking about Luthor's business dealings. Then, the next thing I hear, the man is dead."

There was nothing for Ollie to say. Goodness kept her ear to the ground.

Goodness lowered her hand once more to her dog's head. "I'll see what I can do."

"That's all I ask. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Queen. If you want to repay me properly, you know where I live."

Yeah, that wouldn't be happening.

"I'm not doing this for you, not even for the tip you gave me, though it's much appreciated."

"Then why?"

Ollie watched as Goodness' eyes softened for a heartbeat, her words low and gentle when they came. "No woman deserves to lose her husband and baby in a single night. And if Luthor had anything to do with that and she's finally decided to go after him . . . well, that's one ballsy bitch I can get behind."

With a hiss and a wink, the connection ended.

Ollie scratched his head. "Well, damn."

* * *

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

"We haven't done this in ages, Martha. Thank you for having us to your home."

Alfred poured tea for the three ladies, bowing himself out of the living room when he'd finished.

Martha smiled at her old friends. True, since Bruce's death, she didn't get out nearly as much, but she still thought of Patricia Hill and Lucy Wilberton as dear friends. And, on occasion, they ran into each other at one charity function or another.

Pat looked at Martha and smiled. Martha remembered that smile. It was the same sympathetic smile she always wore when they were together. Martha despised that smile, even though she understood the good place from where it came. Pat still had her husband, the outgoing governor, two successful sons, two daughters-in-laws, four grandchildren, and a daughter who graduated from Harvard Law School in May. From a woman of Patricia Hill's perspective, Martha Wayne had very little. And, for a long time, Martha would've agreed with Pat.

"Where is that daughter-in-law of yours?" Pat asked, looking around the living room as if Diana would miraculously appear.

"She is the sweetest, prettiest thing, isn't she?" Lucy said, her gray-blonde hair short and thin after a vicious bout with chemotherapy and breast cancer. "Even after all these months, she still checks on me, calls, and sends flowers. My husband adores Diana . . . so does Kenneth. He asks about Diana all the time."

Which Lucy never failed to mention whenever she saw Martha. Kenneth Wilberton was Gotham's District Attorney and a tall, handsome man. He would make a woman an adequate husband and the city a fine mayor, like his father. But the man, unlike his parents, was an opportunist with allusions of grandeur. As far as Martha knew, Diana had never glanced twice at Kenneth.

And now, with Clark Kent in her life, she never would.

"Diana is at work. I'll be sure to let her know the two of you asked after her." Martha said a quick, silent prayer for the little white lie she'd just told. Diana wasn't at Wayne Industries. And while Martha didn't know exactly where Diana had gotten off to, she knew Clark was with her and that whatever they were doing had nothing to do with work.

Martha smiled. Finally, her daughter was truly beginning to live again. She would help her with that. That was, after all, why she'd invited Pat and Lucy to her home today. Diana's idea. _"You're the perfect person, Mom. No one else knows the inner workings of Gotham society better than you."_

"I know," Martha began, not bothering with the tea Alfred had given her, "both your husbands have endorsed Lex Luthor for governor."

"Yes."

"Of course."

"You must know how much I've always admired and respected your husbands. Diana, Bruce, and I supported their campaigns. They've been good for our city and our state. It won't be the same without them in office."

The women nodded their heads in agreement, clear pride in their husbands shining through.

Martha did take that sip of tea now. "But Lex Luthor will not be the next governor of this great state."

Pat sputtered then lowered the cup from her mouth. "Why not? He's the best candidate for the job. He believes in the same things our husbands believe in." She pointed to Martha. "The same things Thomas believed in. He's capable of moving this state forward."

"I know that's what everyone thinks, and your husbands have staked their reputations on what they believe is Luthor's rising star. But they are wrong, my friends. Like us all, they have been duped."

Both women put their teacups down, eyes gravely serious and all for Martha.

"What do you know, old friend?"

She leaned in. "Let's have a bit of real talk, shall we ladies?"

* * *

**Detroit, Michigan, Stewart Residence**

"When will Mom be back?"

John glanced down at his daughter, Anansi, all long, thin limbs, bright, coco eyes, and pouty lips.

"Next week." He lifted the seven-year old in his arms. Her frown deepened. John kissed her forehead.

"I'm not a baby, Daddy."

"Then why are you acting like one?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck, legs around his waist. Her head went to his shoulder and she sighed. "I don't like it when she goes away."

Well, John couldn't disagree with that. But John and Mari had been away from home and their daughter for four days. And while Anansi was used to their monthly treks to Gotham, enjoying time with John's parents while they were away, John and Mari decided that John should return to Detroit to be with their daughter while Mari would go on to Zambesi without him.

They both had their missions, which, unfortunately, meant they would be spending a week or more apart. John hated it, but he could handle the separation. Anansi, well, his daughter was a bit of a momma's girl.

"We'll have fun while Mom's away."

"But you have to work, you told me."

John turned in the foyer of the house he'd built for his family and walked up the staircase. Once up the stairs, John headed to the master bedroom where he placed his daughter on his bed. Immediately, like she always did, the girl moved to her mother's side of the bed.

John couldn't help but smile. She was so much like her mother—beautiful and spirited. And he cursed the day when boys would come knocking on his door, thinking to take his daughter away from him. If Mari were here she'd tell him to stop frowning and enjoy their little girl while she was still a little girl and her father was the only male in her life she cared about.

"Tell you what, sweetie; I need to make a couple of phone calls to business associates. Once that's done, I'm all yours. Whatever you want to do, we'll do."

She perked up. "Anything?"

"Within reason, Anansi."

"Movie and popcorn?"

"We can do that."

She jumped from the bed and began heading towards the door. "I'll check the times on the iPad. May I invite a friend, Daddy?"

"Sure, who?"

"Brian."

The frown was back. "Who in the world is Brian?"

"A boy from camp."

"No boys, Anansi. Pick a friend."

"He _is_ a friend."

Dammit. "A _girl _friend."

"I don't get it, and why are you rubbing your temples? Mom says when you get like that—"

"No friends. Just us, okay. Now go find a movie you want to see, get the times, and I'll make my calls."

The look his daughter shot him was, what John could only imagine, would be the same my-father-is-a-crazy-man look she'd give him when she became a teenager and wanted to date and he'd tell her, "Over my cold, dead body."

Looking too much like Mari when he did or said something stupid, John's daughter ran from the room in search of her iPad.

Ten minutes later John was deep in conversation with Wally West, the best construction contractor in Metropolis. He was good and fast.

"Everybody knows West Construction is slated to begin work on Lex Towers."

"Not just that, John. If he's pleased with the work of my crew, he said there's plenty more work for us. The man is gobbling up as much of Metropolis as he can. A real life Pac-Man, if you know what I mean."

Yeah, John knew. But Pac Man was about to be caught and devoured.

Wally laughed. "Based on what you told me about your plans for Luthor, I guess that makes you, Ollie, Arthur, and Victor Pinky, Blinky, Inky, and Clyde."

The man had jokes. But would he be down with the plan?

"If I do this, I want you to introduce me to the delectable Diana Wayne."

Of all the things Wally West could ask for. The man really needed to stop thinking with his di-"

"So, how about it? I wanna meet the lady. I heard that speech she gave the other day. And, damn, she's hotter than ever. I gotta meet her. Tell me you can hook me up."

John sighed. Diana wasn't a piece of meat.

"That and an honorary membership into the Justice League. If I do this, will I get one of those cool pendants?"

Now that was something John didn't mind doing. Despite his Hound Dog ways, Wally was a good, dependable guy. His word was golden, and he would do well on their team.

"Do this for me then we'll see how it goes."

"Sounds like a plan. But, John, I'm serious about meeting Wayne."

"I know you are. You'll meet her. She meets with all her new contractors face-to-face."

Wally snorted. "Yeah, right, I don't have a contract with Wayne Industries."

"You do now, with Wayne Yards and Wayne Shipping. Diana doesn't believe in anyone taking a financial loss for doing the right thing. A Wayne lawyer will have the contract forwarded to you by close of business tomorrow."

"Just like that, huh?"

"Yeah, just like that. Thanks, Wally."

"No problem."

John was about to hang up but stopped. He had to ask. "So, which one am I?"

"Which what?"

"Pinky, Blinky, Inky, or Clyde? Which one?"

Hysterical laughter ran through the receiver. "Jeez, John, Blinky, of course. That red ghost is totally badass."

* * *

**Atlanta, Georgia**

Arthur pulled up the property deeds on his laptop, Mera on the bed next to him.

"I can't believe a man as intelligent as Lex Luthor could miss this."

Neither could Arthur, but Luthor was also an extremely arrogant man. And arrogant men often missed the little things. In this case, his oversight was about to come back and take a chunk out of his worthless hide.

"Do you want to write the non-renewal of lease letter, Arthur, or do you want me to do the honors?"

There was frosty satisfaction in Mera's voice. That was something he understood. Purchasing property leases these past few days had given Arthur much satisfaction because he knew exactly how such a seemingly small detail would have major consequences on Lex Luthor's pride.

And what Diana had requested of Arthur was intended to go to the heart of the villain's ego. He only wished he could be there when Luthor received the letters.

Arthur leaned over and kissed his wife on the lips. "Why don't we do it together?"

"I like that idea."

"Good, because afterwards, I can think of one other thing we can do together."

Mera blushed.

Arthur smiled, and then began typing.

_To Mr. Lex Luthor,_

_It is with regret that I must inform you . . ._

* * *

**Los Angeles, Paradise Island Resort and Spa**

Martin Gruenberg, FDIC chairman and Ben Bernanke, the chairman of the Federal Reserve System, sat across from Hippolyta in her office, grave expressions on their faces.

They flipped through the documents she'd given them only twenty minutes ago, their pallor growing grayer with each page they read.

Finally, Martin spoke, drawing the only conclusion possible. "If these documents are accurate," –he shook his head— "it would mean serious breaches in financial regulations. Truth in lending. Relations with foreign banks and bankers. Transactions between member banks and their affiliates."

"Nonconforming extensions of credit to insiders," Ben added. "Illegal credit extensions to directors, officers, employees, and principal stakeholders." Ben turned another page. "There's even a record here of so-called loans to the former members of Wayne Industries board of directors."

Hippolyta allowed the men time to absorb all the documents revealed, an iceberg of illegal banking activity. The documents she'd given them just the tip of a much larger trail of broken regulations beneath the water's surface.

"Luthor has controlling interest in Metropolis Mercantile Bank, Commerce Bank of Metropolis, and First Metro Security, all members of the Federal Reserve System." Ben looked as if he wanted to hit something . . . or someone.

"We'll have to begin a formal investigation, Hippolyta," Martin said. "While I trust you, I can't go to my board of directors with questionable evidence. We have to have our own investigators go in and find out what's really going on with those banks."

The correct and predictable response, Hippolyta nodded.

"I'll have to do the same. If any of this is true, it makes the whole damn system look bad." Ben dropped the folder of papers on her desk. "Consumers are supposed to be able to trust banks. Without that trust, we have financial anarchy."

"That's why the regulations are so important. That's why they exist. To protect the people."

The men went back and forth, grumbling about one boring governmental regulation after another.

"Provisions of Section 23A of the Federal Reserve Act places restrictions on loans and dealings between member banks and their affiliates . . ."

Mission complete.

Hippolyta rose and left the men to their discussion. She'd promised their wives a personal tour of the resort. And Hippolyta Prince always kept her promises.

* * *

**Metropolis, **_**The Daily Planet**_** Building**

Lois Lane sat in the office of Perry White, Editor-in-Chief of _The Daily Planet_. The man hadn't changed since the day Lois had resigned. His hair may have had less black and more gray but he was as irascible as ever.

"Great Caesar's ghost, Lois, I can't believe what I'm looking at."

Yeah, and she couldn't believe he still said stupid lines like that.

"And you're telling me I can't run with this story now?"

"Not yet, chief. That's not the game plan. If you can't wait then I'll have to take it someplace else. Maybe the _Times_ or the _Post_."

Lois reached for the manila folder she'd handed Perry, knowing precisely what the man would do.

He snatched it away from her. A disapproving snarl followed. "Those incompetent fools at the _Times_ and _Post_ wouldn't know what to do with a story like this. They'd mess it up, spin it all wrong. Bunch of amateurs."

That was her Perry.

"Besides, Luthor's been sniffing around lately. He's already bought one of the local television stations now he's on the hunt for a newspaper to add to his conglomerate."

"So I've heard."

Perry looked from the folder, to Lois, and finally to the man standing several feet behind her.

"What's your angle here, Lane?" He lifted his chin in the direction of the uniformed man. "And what's with the silent Wayne sentry you got there? What's your role in all of this?"

Perry wouldn't believe it if she told him. But this visit, this mission, was Lois's way of making amends. Three days ago, Diana and Clark had come to her, giving Lois an opportunity to regain Diana's trust. She'd jumped at the chance, not only because she still felt guilty, but because it was the most exciting thing she'd done in a long time.

"Does he talk? Hey, kid, do you have a tongue to go with that stoic mug?"

"Leave him alone, Perry." Lois glanced over her shoulder at the huge bodyguard Diana had assigned to her. "His name's Billy Batson."

"Batson, huh? Well, he looks like a twelve-year old on steroids."

Lois smiled. Batson was very young. He couldn't be more than twenty-one. But Diana had assured her that he was an excellent bodyguard.

"Anyway, back to this folder and the story. Diana Wayne wants me to sit on the biggest story of the decade. Luthor is running for governor, you know. Everyone knows he's just using it to springboard himself into the presidency." He thumbed the folder. "After this hits, he'll be lucky to get a seat on a bus. He won't be worth a damn around these parts. And that's if he can keep his chrome dome out of the clink."

"So, chief, what's your decision?"

"Don't call me, chief, and you damn well know my decision, Lane. Tell Wayne I accept."

Reaching into her purse, Lois pulled out a small gold pendant. "Diana asked me to give this to you when you agreed." She handed the pendant to Perry.

He took it then frowned. "That sure of herself, was she? Am I that predictable?"

"Not at all, Perry. Not at all."

He grunted. "You've always been a piss poor liar, Lois. Now get out of my office and take the mute with you."

* * *

**Gotham City, Grayson Residence**

"That's stealing."

"It's not stealing when it's going to charity."

"Who's the detective and who's the computer genius?"

Barbara swiveled in her desk chair to meet the censuring gaze of the detective.

"Do you intend to turn me in?" She held out her wrists to him. "Go ahead, Detective Grayson, use your cuffs and take me in."

He grabbed her wrists and hauled her to her feet, and then kissed her soundly. "It would serve you right if I handcuffed your smartass and then turned you in to your father. How do you think Commissioner Gordon would like that?"

"You're no snitch, Dick, but you are a wonderful husband."

"Yeah, you only ever say that when I catch you doing something you know you shouldn't be and I don't give you hell over it."

He let her go, but she stayed close. Barbara wasn't entirely joking about the handcuffs. She so liked when they played horny cop and slutty robber.

"Did Dr. Wayne approve the extra program you added to her websites?"

Dick knew Diana hadn't approved a thing, but Barbara and Donna were friends and one discussion had led to another and . . .

"I really hope you know what you're doing, Barbara, because, no matter what you say, it is stealing."

Technically, Dick was right. It was stealing. But she wouldn't get caught, and not just because her program was flawless.

"Do you honestly see Lex Luthor going to the Children's Defense Fund and saying, 'Hey, sorry kids, that fifty thousand dollar donation I sent you, I need it back, please.'?"

"Fifty grand, Babs? God, how many fifty grand donations are you taking the guy for?"

She didn't really want to tell her husband. The truth would just disturb him. "For every ten thousand hits on the Justice League of America and the Justice League International sites, Lex Luthor donates fifty thousand dollars to one of the charity foundations I've programmed into the site."

And the money would come directly out of his personal savings and checking accounts. Barbara thought it best not to tell Dick that either. That part had been Donna's idea. And since Donna had somehow managed to get Luthor's checking and savings account numbers, including the offshore ones, it made Barbara's job quite easy.

"What are the other charities?"

Barbara didn't know a lot about charities but she knew tons about research. So she'd done a Google search and found the top thirty-five children's charities in the United States and abroad. Lex Luthor was about to make a lot of needy children very happy.

"Big Brothers, Big Sisters of America," she said, knowing her husband's soft spot for that particular charity.

He hugged her. "I miss him, you know. Bruce was the only family I had after my parents died. He took me in, taught me how to be a man. And when I graduated from high school and didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, he introduced me to your dad."

Barbara knew all of that. That was how she and Richard Grayson had met, her father providing the introductions when she'd found the scrawny teen waiting in her father's study. And while he'd filled out since then and knew exactly who and what he was, Dick had never forgotten all that Bruce Wayne had done for him, a big brother to an orphan.

And neither had Barbara, which was the reason she intended to bleed Lex Luthor dry.

* * *

**Gotham City, Wayne Manor**

"How many confirmations does that make?" Clark asked, looking over Diana's shoulder and at the cell phone in her hand.

"Five."

"We need six. Who's missing?" Unable to help himself, he kissed her neck.

"Mari. But I'm not surprised we haven't heard from her yet. She had to go all the way to Zambesi and speak with different tribal and governmental leaders."

"I get the others - Ollie, John, Hippolyta, Martha-, but not Mari. John told me his wife was a vet."

Diana turned to face him, as serious this night as she'd been since the board meeting several days ago. He wished she would lighten up, smile more. But she was in combat mode. She'd sent out her troops, and like a good commander, was patiently awaiting the fruits of their labors.

"I guess, she could be considered a vet. When Mari moved to the States from Zambesi, she became a model. She was a very good one, made tons of money."

Clark could believe that, the woman was model gorgeous.

"After modeling, she refocused her attention on her home country. I guess she always had a love for animals, so she founded a couple of wildlife preserves with the aid of the Zambesi government. She has many connections there. People like and respect her. She can get things done, go places none of the other board members will be admitted."

"And you think she can talk the Zambesi government out of selling anymore oil to Luthor?"

"With the proper inducements, I'm sure Mari will be able to talk those men into just about anything."

"You have a lot of faith in her."

"I have faith in all of them. Mari will single-handily bring down LexOil and LexAir."

Ah, there was the smile he'd been looking for. But it wasn't from pleasure or happiness, just the beam that came from a well-made chess move.

Diana was full of them, the woman an expert strategist.

"After you hear from Mari, that will take us to the third strategy."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and wished he didn't know the answer to his question. "Spend the night with me, Diana? Just this once."

They couldn't leave the manor this time of night. After Diana's speech, it just wouldn't be the smart thing to do. So the hotel was out.

"You know I can't. I'm sorry. I really am."

Yeah, so was he.

Clark couldn't wait for all of this to be over, so he and Diana could be free. But if she thought he was letting her off that easily, she had another thing coming.

He crushed his mouth and body against Diana's, quick and relentless, and then pulled her to the kitchen floor.

She didn't resist, just said, "After tonight, I'll never be able to look at Alfred mopping this floor in the same way again."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	45. Chapter 44: Ultimate Control

**Chapter 44: Ultimate Control**

**Strategy 3**: Be in control. Look for your opponent's weakness and draw them into it. Control your opponent's mind.

* * *

**Metropolis**

**Day 1**

**LexCorp**

"Your three o'clock is here, Mr. Luthor."

At his secretary's voice over the office intercom system, Lex glanced up from the pile of Wayne Industries documents Talia had downloaded and sent to him. That had been several days ago and before Diana Wayne had shocked him and Talia with her knowledge of Ra's al Ghul and the League of Assassins.

Lex had no idea how the woman had come by the information. He'd always suspected she would eventually find her husband's files. After all, he knew they existed and Bane and the Joker had damn sure not found them three years ago. No matter, he consoled himself. Let Diana and her ramshackle Justice League go after Ghul and his misfit crew of killers. She would learn soon enough not to poke a rattler with nothing more than a stick.

If Wayne weren't such a pathetic adversary, Lex would actually take the time to laugh. But she was, and Diana Wayne wasn't worth a single smirk, not even a half-hearted lift of his lips. She would fail. She would die. And then this mess with the Waynes would finally be over. _As it should've been three years ago._

"Mr. Luthor? Should I send Mr. West in?"

Lex smiled. Ghul may be under the microscope right now, but the man was like a cockroach. He could survive a nuclear explosion, and he would survive Wayne. If she weren't such a humanitarian pain in the ass, Lex would consider bedding the woman. She had to be overdue for a good round of golf. And Lex, well he was a superior golfer. Talia could attest to how well he played.

Lex pushed a button on his phone. "Send in Mr. West, Sally." He stood and came from around his desk, the door to his office opening a second later.

Wally West stood there, a big boyish smile on his face. Ordinarily Lex didn't work with men who found humor in everything. But West was excellent at what he did. The buildings his crew erected were not only solid structures that met all codes and regulations; they had a classy, visual appeal that suited a man of Lex's discerning taste.

West closed the door behind him and stepped further into the office, extending his hand for the compulsory shake.

They shook. West's hand was hard and calloused from labor. That was good. Lex could respect a hard-working man.

"I'm glad you're here, Mr. West. I have a few ideas about LexTowers I wanted to run by you before you and your men got started."

"Yeah, well, about that." West reached around into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope. He handed it to Lex.

Lex turned the envelope over, revealing the LexCorp return address.

"What's this?"

"The contract for Lex Towers."

Lex opened the envelope and pulled out the legal document. His name was at the bottom, as was Wally West's.

It wasn't signed.

He frowned.

"I thought you signed and dropped this off with Legal last week."

At the man's shrewd expression, his respect for West grew. The businessman with hands of a laborer was more cunning than Lex had given the man credit for being. He was there to renegotiate the terms of the contract. Lex had thought the financial arrangement acceptable, albeit a bit better for him than West Construction. Perhaps he'd realized or had his lawyer point out that, by signing the contract, he would be selling his services too cheap.

Fair enough. Lex was willing to hash out the finer points of the contract, as long as West and his men began work on LexTowers as soon as possible.

"So, what's your number, West?"

"Number? What are you talking about?"

"Your price to build my tower. I assume my initial offer was too low, so what's the number you have in your head? If it's reasonable, we can have this contract reworked before you leave, and then you can sign."

West began shaking his head. "You misunderstand me. I came here to let you know that West Construction is no longer available."

Lex dropped the unsigned contract. "What are you talking about? We had a deal."

"Yeah, well, that deal is now off the table."

"Is this about money? I told you, I'm willing to pay your price, just give me a number."

"It's not about money. I don't want or need your money."

"The hell you don't. Everyone needs my money, West. Building LexTowers will put you on the map. Do you have any idea how important I am in Metropolis? How even more important I'll be when I become governor of this state?"

"Like I said, my company is no longer taking contracts from LexCorp."

Lex was ready to explode, to ball his fist and ram it down the cocky fool's face. How dare he turn his nose up at his offer. Who in the hell did this kid think he was?

"You think your little company is the only construction company in Metropolis, West? There are dozens of others. I can get two of your company just like" –he snapped his fingers—"that."

"I'm the best, that's why you wanted me. But go ahead, call those other companies."

Something wasn't right here. A man didn't just turn his back on hundreds of thousands of dollars without a very good reason.

"Got a better offer, West?"

"Maybe."

That's what he thought. But no one took what belonged to Lex Luthor. No one.

"I'll double whatever price you agreed on."

"I'm good, and the benefit is quite lovely to look at?"

_What in the hell does that mean?_

"Look, I gotta go, Mr. Luthor. I just wanted to let you know in person." West gave Lex his back and opened the door. "Good luck trying to find another decent contractor."

Lex didn't like the way West said that last sentence, as if he knew something he didn't, which was impossible, because Lex Luthor knew all, saw all, was all. Too bad Wally West hadn't understood that before he made the biggest mistake of his piss ant life.

Irritated, Lex returned to his desk and chair and began hitting keys on his laptop. West Construction could go to hell. He would find a company just as good. _Better._

Two hours and ten phone calls later, Lex was ready to throw his phone and computer out the window.

Ten goddamn rejections. Ten. No reputable company wanted his business, him, Lex Luthor of LexCorp, richest man in Metropolis and the next governor.

The window to his office cracked but didn't break when he hurled his desk lamp.

Sally rushed in, blue eyes wide. She took one look at Lex's seething face and wisely left him the hell alone.

* * *

**Day 3**

**LexCorp Ballroom**

The LexCorp ballroom was stunning, done in red, white and blue - white, cotton tablecloths, red roses as a centerpiece with baby breaths, and blue-and-white, silk chair coverings. It was perfect, the ideal image for the next president of the United States.

But first, there was the gubernatorial campaign and the election. Lex didn't worry about the election, though, his rival, Ted Kord of Kord Enterprises was an absolute joke. What self-respecting man of business went by the nickname of "Blue Beetle?" Surely, no one worth electing, Lex knew.

He settled in a chair at his VIP table. His guests would be arriving within the hour. Lex smiled, his week had started off with him contemplating murdering every construction contractor in Metropolis. But tonight, this fundraiser was just what he needed. It would put him back on track, solidifying his place in political history. A stepping stone that was years in the making.

With pride, he scanned the ballroom. Soon it would be filled with the upper echelons of New York society. Men and women who'd paid handsomely to contribute to his campaign and to spend an evening in his presence.

Life was good. After tonight, West and those other contractors would eat their rejections. And when they came crawling back, which, no doubt they would, Lex would show them no mercy.

He closed his eyes, savoring the future he'd laid out for himself. And when he opened them, he watched as his first guests arrived – the mayor of Gotham and governor of the state.

Lex stood and extended his hand to Governor Hill, pleased he'd arrived early. This would give Lex a few uninterrupted minutes of networking. The outgoing governor was a highly respected and influential politician, and the electorate had seen fit to put Hill in office twice. He knew all the right people, moved in the best, most exclusive circles.

Hand still extended for the governor's shake, Lex stood there, waiting and seeing, with disbelief, that the debonair gentleman with gray hair had no intention of extending his own hand.

Lex let his right hand drop, swallowing the burn of open dismissal. It was then he noticed the cold, repulsed way the governor and Gotham mayor glared at him. He didn't understand. The last time he'd spoken with the men, it had been over drinks after Hill and Wilberton had agreed to endorse him in his bid for governor.

Now, well, now the men stared at Lex as if he had a contagious disease they feared catching.

"Thank you both for coming."

"Don't thank us, we're not staying," Hill said.

And did Lex detect disgust in his tone? He was sure he did. But why? He and Hill were friends. Well, not exactly friends, more like Hill was one of Lex's many pawns. But as far as the governor knew, they were political allies, at the least.

"You paid five thousand dollars for you and your lovely wife, Patricia for tonight." Lex glanced behind the men. They were alone, no wives. "Where are Pat and Lucy?"

"They won't be coming," Wilberton answered, his voice as distant as Hill's.

A chill ran down Lex's spine. These men should not be acting like this. He'd courted their patronage for months, played nice with their insipid, chatty wives, and laughed at jokes that weren't funny twenty years ago.

"And we're not staying, like I said, Luthor. But we came, giving you a courtesy you damn well don't deserve." Hill stepped closer, gray eyes boring into Lex. "You got a lot of nerve, Luthor, that's one thing I can say about you. Nerves and balls. And just think we swallowed all your lies, thought you were one of us."

Wilberton scoffed. "You like playing people the fool, don't you, Lex? I guess you had a big laugh at our expense when we decided to endorse you. Well, that ship has sailed. Keep the five grand; it's the last thing you'll get from either of us."

Feeling anxious and desperate in a way he despised, Lex gritted out, "Just tell me what this is all about; I'm sure we can settle whatever it is that have you both so upset." He gestured to the table behind him. "Let's just sit down and talk. I think there must be some kind of misunderstanding. I haven't played you men. You're nobody's fool."

Oh, but they were. Yet something had changed – fundamental and disturbing.

Hill shook his head, rejecting the overture. "I don't sit down with men I don't trust. And I won't endorse or support a man who belongs in prison."

_Prison?_

"You have it all wrong," Lex tried again, already knowing what else he might say would fall on deaf ears. For once, Lex Luthor had no idea what was going on, and he didn't like it, not one tiny bit.

So when Hill and Wilberton left and no one else on his guest list arrived, Lex wasn't even surprised. He was however spitting mad.

* * *

**Day 7**

**Metropolis Mercantile Bank**

Lex rarely took the time to check in on his banks. That's what good managers were for. But when Mr. White, the manager of Metropolis Mercantile Bank called, spouting nonsense about the Federal Reserve and the the FDIC, Lex knew he better get down there as soon as possible.

Now he stood beside Mr. White, glaring at two investigators who'd just handed Lex formal letters of complaint and investigation.

"What in the hell is this?" He shook the papers at the men, their black suits as dark and stiff as their stony faces.

"You can read, Mr. Luthor. The letters state our purpose here today. We received a complaint against your three banks."

"Complaints?"

"And we're here to find out if there is any validity to the complaints." The tall African-American man from the FDIC pointed to the letters in Lex's hand. "There's a number at the bottom of the letter. Call my boss, if you need to, but we're here and we won't be leaving until this matter is settled."

"What do you want me to do?" Mr. White asked, face pale from what Luthor knew was fear. And, dammit, the spineless old man had every right to be afraid. While White didn't know all the ways Luthor misused the bank, the manager was quite aware of his own and other employees' kickbacks for turning a blind eye to Luthor's less than legal business dealings.

"Give the good men whatever they require, Mr. White. We have nothing to hide. The sooner they see that for themselves, the sooner they will leave."

Lex hoped White wasn't too far gone with images of himself in a federal pen that he missed what Lex was actually saying to him. There were records, and then there were records. Lex had spent good money on doctored documents. He could keep the investigators busy for days or weeks with his shell game of files, and the men would find nothing of merit.

That is, if White was still in possession of his balls and brain.

"Umm, right, right, Mr. Luthor, whatever the men require. I, ah, assume you want me to give them your special passcode?"

Ah, the man understood. Luthor's passcode would take the investigators into a maze from which they would never emerge.

"Yes, Mr. White, give the men access to my personal records."

Lex grinned at the investigators and knew the look was one of menace. He couldn't help it; they shouldn't be here. But they were, putting his entire operation at risk. Hadn't he paid off enough lawyers, cops, judges, and politicians to make sure this kind of oversight didn't happen?

He did, and for what? To have his day upended by men who, Lex was pretty sure, couldn't spell the word bribe. But the men were more annoying than truly threatening. He just needed to be patient and wait for the storm to pass.

"By the way, Mr. Luthor," the African-American investigator said, "due to the severity of the complaints and the involvement of three banks controlled by the same man, there will be a team of investigators at each of your banks beginning tomorrow. And we'll need more than your personal account information. We will also need to schedule interviews with all of your bank staff, including the cleaning crew. No one is exempt. And, just so that we're clear, Mr. Luthor, that also means you."

Of course it did, because his life was going to hell. And—_fuck_—someone had given him a first-class ticket to the hot and fiery place.

And, yeah, he was damn sure he knew the conductor of this runaway train.

The investigator stepped to the side; face all hard planes and impatience. "Since you're already here, Mr. Luthor, we might as well begin with you. Please show us to your office. We have quite a few questions for you. Our directors are anxious to know your answers."

He showed the men to his office, and when the door closed behind them and the degrading interrogation began, Luthor, for the first time in his distinguished life, knew exactly how it felt to be mind fucked.

* * *

**Day 10**

**Metropolis, Red Roof Inn**

Talia stood in the middle of the motel room, arms crossed over her chest, face drawn down in disapproval.

"What? I guess you thought we should meet at the Ritz Carlton."

"That would've been nice. I'm not even sure they change the sheets."

"It doesn't matter, Talia, we won't be here long or fucking." No, Lex had invited Talia here for one thing and one thing only.

"I need to know what in the hell is going on at Wayne Industries."

The last time they'd met, after Wayne had turned the world into her personal army of snitches, Talia had known nothing about Wayne's plan or the information she'd obviously found on Ghul and his assassins.

"She hasn't been into the office much. Her sister has basically taken over the day-to-day operation of Wayne Industries."

"I don't get it. Why?"

"Clark Kent. I think she's catering to her stab victim."

That had been a royal miscalculation on Luthor's part. The one time he let his dick rule his mind had caused him a perfectly good street level hustler. Now, Grundy was in prison and solitary confinement. And Luthor had no idea what the man may have said to the police. He was certain Grundy couldn't directly connect him to the hit he'd been paid to execute. Still, it was one loose end too many.

"Ever since Wayne's bleeding heart, vigilante speech, my life has been spiraling out of control. Everywhere I turn, all my years of hard work and planning is crumbling down around my ears. LexCorp's stock has plummeted. Everyone is bailing, rats off a sinking ship."

And that disloyalty had stung and angered. He'd made those worthless stockholders millions of dollars over the years, and now, unexpectedly, they were dumping his stock for pennies on the dollar. It made no sense. They were losing money, yet that hadn't deterred them.

And the one ally he thought he had, Granny Goodness, had told him, when he'd called to ask for her help, "I only have room in my life for one mercy, and that, Luthor, is my trusted hound. I have no mercy for you. Give my regards to the Devil."

Then she'd hung up, leaving Luthor stunned. Granny Goodness was nearly as dirty as Luthor, yet the old bag had spoken to him with such contempt, as if he'd done something that had crossed one of her murky moral lines. As if a woman like Granny Goodness had a right to have standards.

"Wayne has to be behind all of this." Luthor started to pace. "At first I thought she only knew about your father. When she didn't mention me during her press conference, I thought I was in the clear."

"Yeah, I bet you did."

He swung to face Talia.

"And what, you didn't? I didn't see your face paraded on the news for all to see and judge. And, if I'm not mistaken, your life hasn't been affected."

He knew he was right. Talia al Ghul was a first-class whiny, spoiled bitch whose best attribute lay between her easily parted thighs. So if she'd had even a third of his current troubles, he would've heard.

"What's your point?"

"My point, my little spy, is that your boss has been toying with me. She has to know about me and your father, and she's been taking her revenge, slowly robbing me of all that I am and love."

She snorted; her derision for him unmasked. "Lex Luthor loves nothing."

In three steps, he had Talia on her tiptoes and pinned against a wall, one had around her fragile throat. "That's right, Talia, I love nothing and no one but myself. Everything I do is for me and me alone. My future. My legacy. And now Diana Wayne has dared to challenge me. She has no idea the pain I will bring down on her head."

"L-let me go," Talia begged, her fingers digging into the wrist that held her.

"Not until I make one thing clear. I want Diana Wayne, and I want you to give her to me. Find something, a chink in her armor. Something, dammit, I want that woman dead."

"P-please. Let me—"

Luthor released Talia. For her to be the daughter of Ghul, the woman lacked fortitude. But she would have to do.

"Find something, Talia. I need to be able to get to her. She can't hide out in that fortress of hers forever. She'll slip. People like her always do, and when she does, I'll be there."

Rubbing her reddened neck, Talia looked as if she wanted to kill Luthor where he stood. Good, maybe she would put that fire to good use before Diana Wayne seized what was left of his life.

"She doesn't know about you yet, Talia. That's our ace. She trusts you. You're close to her. You can do this. You have to do this. If you don't, we're all dead. And I, for one, have no intention of forfeiting my life."

Ignoring the seething hatred in her eyes, Luthor opened the motel room door, the air from the cool August night hitting his enflamed face. "I got five emails today from charities. Two yesterday and ten the day before that. They all wanted to thank me for my gracious donations."

He turned to face her. "As you know, I'm my only charity. But, apparently, I've been doling out fifty grand donations, and not just once, no, but three times and more."

He didn't even want to say aloud how much money he'd lost. And the banks where his accounts were had had no explanation. They didn't even know money had been taken from his account. But it had, an electronic trail that led only from the bank to the receiving charity.

He'd had to close the corrupted accounts down. Yet today's emails had informed him that it hadn't been enough, as did an updated account summary putting him down an unforgivable two million dollars. If this continued, he wouldn't be able to purchase himself a cup of coffee no less the services of his best hitters.

Humbling himself in a way that galled, Luthor confessed, "I need your help, Talia. You're the only one capable of saving me, of giving me the opportunity I need to deal with a foe I should've never underestimated."

* * *

**Day 14**

**LexCorp**

It had been four days since Lex's conversation with Talia, yet she still had nothing. More money had been drained from his accounts, local and international. The investigators had, apparently, taken up permanent residence in his banks, and his campaign was slowly, surely sliding into the crapper.

Leaning back in his office chair, Lex began to open his mail. There was one from a P.O. Box in Atlanta. He had several associates in Atlanta, none of whom would've sent him a letter. Taking his letter opener, Lex slid it until the envelope lay open for him. Unfolding the piece of paper inside, he read:

_To Mr. Lex Luthor,_

_It is with regret that I must inform you that Wayne Industries will not renew your business leases at the end of your lease agreements. This applies to the following, recently purchased, Wayne Industries properties: LexCorp, SuperStation WLEX, __Zephrymore Building, __Metropolis Mercantile Bank, Commerce Bank of Metropolis, and First Metro Security. It is imperative you settle all outstanding rental balances with Wayne Industries prior to the end date of the contracts._

_At Wayne Industries, we value our customers. We hope our decision will not prove to be an inconvenience but we have no interest in continuing in a business relationship with LexCorp umbrella. However, if you are interested in purchasing the properties, I'm sure we can arrive at a fair agreement._

_For questions or concerns, please complete the electronic customer service form on the Wayne Industries website._

_Thank you for your business._

Before he knew it, Luthor had ripped the letter to shreds and had grabbed his gun out of his desk drawer. Diana Wayne would not control him. No one controlled Lex Luthor.

Even if he died, he would take Bruce Wayne's widow with him. Enough was enough; Lex would find the woman himself and put a bullet in her scheming head. If Diana Wayne wanted a war, well, Lex would bring that war to her.

Checking his weapon, Lex shoved the pistol in the pocket of the suit jacket he'd just slipped into. Striding to his office door, Lex stopped when he felt his cell phone vibrate. Pulling it from his pants pocket, he read the text message. _CK has a lakefront property near Lake George. Will be there this weekend with DW. Love nest. No guards. Only chance. Don't screw up._

Lex smiled, feeling like himself for the first time in two weeks. By this weekend, the headache that was Diana Wayne would be no more.

He turned back to his desk. He had a couple of phone calls to make. But first, he needed to get the exact address of that lakefront property home. His men would need that, and this time, Diana Wayne would die.

Finally.

Gloriously.

_My perfect revenge. No one control's Lex Luthor; I control them._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	46. Chapter 45: Dirty War

**Chapter 45: Dirty War **

**Strategy 4:** Deception is an ancient art and invaluable when throwing people off track. Misinformation and decoys can consume your opponent.

* * *

**Gotham, Wayne Industries**

Self-consciously, Talia found herself lifting her hand to her neck. For the last several days, she'd had to don a summer scarf to hide the bruises around her neck. _Damn Lex Luthor._ Talia absolutely despised the man. How dare he manhandle her the way he had. Didn't he know that women like her had claws and weren't afraid to use them?

Bruce had learned that fact the hard way. _And so will, Lex. _She'd taken a picture of her black-and-blue neck and forwarded it to her father. He hadn't been pleased. Talia didn't know what Ra's would do to Lex, but she knew her father well enough to know he abhorred the thought of another laying a hand on what he considered his "property."

Talia belonged to no man, not even her father. Ra's and Luthor were cut from a too similar cloth, both possessive and egomaniacal. Talia could do without both in her life. And soon she would. After she gave Luthor what he wanted, Talia intended to pack her bags and get as far away from Gotham and Metropolis as possible. She would change her name again, dropping off the radar until all her enemies were dead or in prison.

If she were very lucky, that would include Lex Luthor, Ra's al Ghul, and Diana Wayne. Once they were all out of the way, Talia would resurface and claim the mantle as head of the League of Assassins, which she intended to change to the League of Shadows.

It would all be hers. _Finally. _Because, hell no, Diana's so-called Justice League would not survive when they came up against the League of Assassins. The Assassins were soulless killers who gloried in destroying, leaving bloody remains in their wake. Yet Diana's Leaguers were upstanding citizens who upheld a moral code that made them weak, and would leave them vulnerable when they came up against her father's Assassins.

That was the real reason why Diana Wayne and her ilk would always fail, always end up on the losing end of any war. She and her associates simply did not have what it took to go all the way, to put the final nail in the coffin of their enemies.

And a coffin did await Diana. Little did she know she'd marked herself for death the moment she'd uttered one public word about Ghul and his assassins. _If Lex's men don't get to her first. Either way, she'll be dead and I'll be away from Gotham and Wayne Industries._

The ringing phone jolted Talia out of her thoughts. Instinctively, she snatched up the receiver. "Good morning, you've reached Wayne Industries, the office of Dr. Diana Wayne, CEO. This is Talia Head, how may I help you?"

God, she really needed to get the hell away from here. She'd been forced to remember that long, ridiculous greeting the first day she began working for Diana. And she'd had to at least have said it a thousand times or more. On top of that, she had to actually be cheery and sound as if she gave a damn about the person on the other end.

"Morning, Talia, this is Clark Kent. I was hoping to catch Donna. Is she in and available for a quick call?"

Of course the wench was in. She was always in. Unlike Diana, who moved about the building, a visible CEO tending to her adoring flock, Donna rarely left her sister's office, which meant Talia hadn't been able to logon to Diana's personal account for two weeks. And she really needed to know what Diana had discovered about Ra's and the assassins whereabouts. But Donna was like a goddamn squatter.

Here she was talking to Clark Kent. The idiot should be dead, not wasting her time with his petty needs. Wasn't one sister enough? Why was he calling for the other? And must he remind Talia of her failure by forcing her to listen to his annoyingly pleasant morning voice?

Talia didn't bother with protocol. She was expected to put the caller on hold, call into the office to see if Donna was free to take a call, and then either take a message, if she weren't, or transfer the call to Donna. But none of that nonsense mattered. Donna was not as discerning as her sister and took every call, no matter the person or the level of importance. That girl had a lot to learn about being in charge and heading up a multibillion dollar company. _Too bad big sis won't be around long enough to teach her._

Talia transferred the call. And, a second later, Donna picked up.

Talia remained on the open line. Not wanting to miss their conversation, Talia softly laid the handset down, ran to the front office glass doors and shut them. Everyone knew when Diana's front doors were closed it meant she did not want to be disturbed, which was exactly what Talia wanted. The last thing she needed was for someone to come in when she was eavesdropping.

Talia eased back into her chair and ever so delicately, picked up the receiver, and placed her hand over the mouthpiece.

"I don't know, Clark," she heard Donna say. "You should probably wait until this mess with the League of Assassins is done."

"That's the reason I think now is a good time to get away. Just for a few days. But Diana won't go if she feels she has to return to work. She needs a break, Donna. You know that. This business with that Ghul jerk and his assassins is taxing."

Donna paused.

Talia watched Diana's closed office door, listening for movement from within. She heard nothing until Donna's uncertain voice came again.

"I'm supposed to be back in L.A. by Monday. I have a full-day schedule with advertising executives who wish to pitch their proposals for Paradise Island Resort and Spa. I intended to fly out Sunday morning."

That was three days from now.

"Can't Kara handle that for you?"

"It's not your cousin's job, Clark, it's mine. Kara manages the resort and she does it well, but it's a lot of work and I wouldn't feel comfortable asking her to step in for me."

"What about Hippolyta? Come on, Donna, I'm only asking for a few more days of your time. A week. And I'm sure Victor would be glad to have you stay."

Clark Kent played dirty pool. For some odd reason, Victor Stone had aligned his tall, dark, handsome, and brainy self with Donna Prince. Obviously, the man wasn't nearly as intelligent as everyone thought.

Donna sighed, a sure sign she had just caved. "Fine, but I'm only giving you five days then I must get back home."

"Thank you, thank you, you're the best."

"Yes, yes, of course I am. Make sure you tell my mother that when she takes a bite out of my hide for dumping a meeting with ass kissing ad guys on her."

"Ahh," Clark hedged, "I think I'll leave the explaining to Diana."

Donna laughed. "That's a good idea. Diana is the only one who can handle, Mother, and she barely manages. Anyway, where are you planning on taking my sister?"

"I own a little place near Lake George. Wide open space with plenty of grass, trees, and fresh air, just what a city girl like Diana needs."

"Hmm-mmm, and secluded I bet."

There was a short embarrassed pause then, "Yeah, just the two of us. No guards, Donna. No one knows where the house is located. I only just brought it less than a year ago, and it's not a Wayne property so it can't be easily tracked."

"But Clark—"

"I know what you're thinking, but Diana will be safe. Manny will drive us there and pick us up three or four days later. He'll stay in one of the local hotels. If we need him, he'll be a phone call away."

Talia began to smile. She could've kissed Clark Kent and his romantic gesture. Lex had been right. Diana was about to slip up and have a fatal fall. Love often did that to women, which was the reason Talia had never allowed herself to make such a stupid mistake. _Not even with Bruce._ Though that had been the closest she'd ever come to loving a man.

"Diana should say 'no,' but I know she won't, which means you better take damn good care of my sister or you'll have more than Hippolyta Prince coming after you."

The conversation continued for a few more minutes. Nothing else of importance was said, but Talia had heard all she needed to get Diana Wayne and Lex Luthor out of her life for good. One would die a horrible death, and if all went well, the other would meet the same fate when her father returned to Metropolis.

Smiling, Talia felt as light as a feather. She'd done it – the impossible. She had her revenge on Bruce Wayne, shown her father, through her spying, that she was better than the son he'd wanted but never had, and had outsmarted the savvy Lex Luthor.

Picking up her cell phone, Talia sent the last message she ever would to the black hearted Luthor. For all she cared, the son of a bitch could rot in hell.

* * *

**Meanwhile**

Donna stepped inside of Diana's hidden surveillance room. On the outside, it appeared like nothing more than small closet. But inside it was so much more. Flat security screens abounded, one linked to every camera in Diana's executive suite, including the front office where Talia was texting away, her fingers flying. From the angle of camera 1, Donna couldn't make out what the woman was typing. She turned to camera 2, the camera in the light above Talia's head.

"Zoom in, please Vic."

He did.

They read.

Donna swore, and then smiled.

"It's finally done." Vic swiveled his muscular body to face her. "She took the bait."

Of course the traitor had. They all knew she would. Diana understood her enemies better than they understood themselves, which, if Donna was honest, was a scary trait her sister had been forced to develop since the murder of her family.

Picking up the secure phone beside Vic, Donna dialed. Two rings later, a familiar voice answered.

"Hello, Clark, why are you answering Diana's cell?"

"Well, it's nice to speak to you too, Donna. I feel like it's been ages instead of only five minutes."

"Yeah, well, a lot can happen in five minutes. Where's my sister?"

"On a mat with Manny on top of her."

"Ah, I see you and Diana are into some kinky shit. Nice to know. Well, I guess I should've figured that when I walked in on the two of you doing the horizontal hokey pokey on Alfred's spotless kitchen floor." And thank god for the large kitchen island or she would've known far more about her sister and Clark than she wanted.

"I thought we all agreed to never mention that night."

"True, but it's kind of hard not think of it when you mention Diana having another man on top of her. Sounds like one of those shows where the husband or boyfriend asks some stud to have sex with his woman while he watches, and then has the nerve to get upset when the woman has a better time with the stranger than she's ever had with him."

Vic raised one dark eyebrow at Donna then gave her an admonishing shake of the head. He was right. _Back to business._

"Anyway, haul Manny's ass off my sister and give her the phone, Clark."

Clark said nothing, which meant he'd taken her little joke, inappropriate as it may have been, too seriously. The dude needed to lighten up. Diana was uptight enough without pairing herself with a guy who didn't know how to take a proper Prince joke.

"What did you say to Clark?" was the first thing Diana said when she got on the line.

"Nothing. Besides, he's too sensitive. And why were you on the floor with Manny?"

"Sparring."

"He's huge."

"I know. He and Sam are excellent practice."

Now Clark's lack of humor made sense. But they'd all agreed. This was what Diana felt needed to be done, and if fighting Manny and Sam prepared her for the trial to come then they all would just have to suck it up and pray for the best.

"I assume you have good news for me?"

"Yes, it's done."

Donna heard her sister exhale slowly before saying, with steel in her voice, "Finish her, Donna."

That was a given.

"May I have a little fun first?"

"What kind of fun?"

"Oh, just a little Donna Prince special for our Ghulish friend."

"I just want it done."

Pause. One second. Two. Three.

"Alright, do it your way, little sister, I trust you'll give Talia al Ghul exactly what she deserves."

Oh yes, exactly.

"Call me when you've removed her foul stench from Wayne Industries."

"No need, Di. Give me three hours then turn on WLEX."

"WLEX?" Diana's bitter laugh was nothing like the free-spirited sister from three years ago. She wanted that Diana back, and would do anything to give her sister the peace of mind and soul that was due her. "I look forward to it, Donna. Love you."

"Love you too, sis."

Victor stood then wrapped strong arms around Donna. "Diana will be fine. Clark will be with her."

"I know, but he's not Phillipus."

Soothing hands ran up and down her back. She sighed and relaxed into Victor's embrace. This must be the way Clark made Diana feel – safe and loved. A woman could get drunk on such masculine affections.

"I already have the video ready. I can stream it whenever you give me the word."

Donna hugged Victor tighter. He had taken care of her single request. The same way he had taken care of so many other things since Bruce's death. Courageous, dependable, trustworthy, all words that aptly described Victor Stone. All the attributes in a male Donna had never seen in her father, but luckily, witnessed in men like Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, John Stewart, Oliver Queen, and Arthur Curry. They were the true Justice League, Diana the single female brave and smart enough to harness their combined capacity.

A survivor.

A leader of men.

That was Diana Wayne, Diana Prince, her sister, her best friend. And Talia, well, she was about to learn that when someone messed with one Prince sister they messed with both.

"I need to make a couple of phone calls first, send an email to all employees, and a few of other details."

Vic released her but not before pressing a soft, beguiling kiss to Donna's lips. "I'll be ready when you are. Go do your thing and I'll see you when the fireworks begin."

She nodded, and then watched the man of her heart slip out of a side door that led from the surveillance room to an adjacent conference room Diana used for small group meetings.

Moving back into Diana's main office, Donna went straight for the office door and opened. Talia sat at her desk, the picture of the perfect Executive Assistant. The woman was a coldhearted bitch who was overdue to be put down.

Donna smiled.

"Talia, please send a high priority e-mail to all Wayne Industries' employees. I'm calling an emergency meeting. It will broadcast from Conference Room A and be streamed to the smaller meeting areas throughout the building. I expect all to be in attendance. Diana's executive team should come to the main conference room."

"When?"

"Two and a half hours should give them enough time to arrange their work schedules for the last- minute meeting."

"Yes, Ms. Prince."

Oh, how polite Talia was being, her happy compliance evident in the dark eyes that held Donna's gaze with an incredible display of warmth and trust.

Talia had neither.

"Thank you, Talia. I expect to see you there."

* * *

**Conference Room A**

Talia was impatient, but it was hampered by giddiness. After today, she wouldn't have to see any of these people ever again, especially the woman sitting next to her.

"I wonder what the meeting is all about. I mean, after Dr. Wayne's press conference, we're liable to hear anything from her sister."

Sasha was babbling again, her too large hips barely able to fit in the chair. And she had, of course, a diet soda glued to a chubby hand. The accountant really needed to invest in a good fitness center membership and hire herself a dietician.

"We'll find out soon enough." For Talia, that couldn't come soon enough. She had only two more hours left in the workday, and then she could quietly slip from the building and this old life. She didn't dare leave during the middle of the day, as she'd been tempted to do after sending Luthor the text. Instead, she made herself stay and finish out the day, unwilling to risk making Donna suspicious by bailing too soon. Tomorrow she would call in sick. After that, people could think whatever they wanted about her absence. Talia would be long gone by then.

So, no, she didn't even mind fat Sasha sitting next to her, breath smelling of cola and onion rings.

Within minutes, Donna Prince entered the conference room, Victor Stone next to her. The room quieted and dozens of eyes followed the pair as they made their way to the front of the room.

Victor went to the media cart in the left corner of the room. Within seconds, a screen descended from the ceiling and Talia heard the telltale signs of unseen speakers being turned on.

The large conference table had been removed earlier to accommodate all the people, so now there were at least twenty rows of chairs, all occupied. Talia, having waited to the last possible moment to attend, sat in the next to last row, anxious Wayne staffers on both sides. But there were others, standing by the walls, filling in as much empty space as possible.

Standing in front of the overflowing crowd, Donna, dressed in a black-and-white dress pant suit, dark hair pulled back into a braid Talia had seen Diana wear on many occasions. From where she sat, if she didn't know better, Talia would've sworn Diana stood before her instead of her younger sister. The resemblance was both astonishing and irritating.

"Thank you all for coming," Donna began. "As you know, after Bruce Wayne, owner and CEO of Wayne Industries died, his wife, Dr. Diana Wayne, took over the duties of her deceased husband. It was then she dismissed the Board of Directors."

Many heads nodded at Donna's words, clearly knowing this bit of history.

"Before his death, my brother-in-law had learned that his board had been corrupted by outside forces."

Mumbled anger began to hiss around the conference room, including from Sasha who leaned in and said, "I knew there had to be a reason why Dr. Wayne got rid of all those old-timers. I can't believe those bastards betrayed Mr. Wayne's trust."

"They lined their pockets by selling Wayne Industries' secrets. My sister put an end to that by letting them go and instituting a new and improved board. A board that is committed to the vision, mission, and values of Wayne Industries, the same vision, mission, and values you all hold dear."

Vigorous nods from some, claps from others. It was like déjà vu, Donna stirring the crowd as easily as Diana had two weeks ago.

Talia glanced behind her, scanning for a quick escape. Yet all exits were blocked, bodies everywhere. Like the press conference, Talia's instincts told her that something bad was amiss.

"Three years ago, my sister thought she ridded the company of the traitors in our midst. And she had, until a few months ago."

Donna stepped aside, the lights dimmed, and words and images began to play on the screen.

"Wayne Industries," the voice on the video began, sounding exactly like Donna Prince, "presents the abridged version of _Ghul Traitor Chronicles_."

The video began, opening with a widescreen of Diana's office. Then it zoomed in when the door opened. A woman walked inside the office, closed the door behind her, and made her way to the large desk. She booted up the desktop computer, searched confidential Wayne Industries' files, and then began to download those files onto the flash drive she'd inserted.

That scene switched to another day, same office, same woman, different files, more downloading. And on and on it went, endless recorded images of corporate theft, months of activity condensed into ten excruciating minutes of irrefutable evidence.

Talia wished she could disappear into the floor, simply melt away before the lights were turned back on.

But this was the real world where magical disappearing acts simply did not happen. And the video continued to play. Eventually, it stopped, and Talia opened eyes she hadn't realized she'd closed. The too bright light was on and a hundred or more hard, angry eyes were glaring at her.

Silence.

Cold, murderous silence met Talia al Ghul.

Then the sting of flesh against flesh came, and Talia felt the burn of a hand across her face. She stared at the person who'd dared. _Sasha, the cow._

"You lying, duplicitous, bitch."

Another slap followed, from the woman to Talia's left. Talia didn't know the woman's name, only that she was a lawyer and wore too many rings, all which had just connected with her face.

Fear began to churn inside. The crowd was closing in, their faces promising retribution.

Talia stood, pushed the lawyer out of her way. But there was nowhere to go. No one budged.

They moved in closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Someone yanked her hair.

Her clothes.

Hands. Many hands grabbed at her, digging into flesh with nails, fury, and hate.

She fell to the floor; sure she'd be trampled by the mob above. Talia closed her eyes, balled her body into a fetal position, and waited for the onslaught to begin.

One minute. Two.

Nothing happened.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes. The crowd had parted, and only Donna Prince, Victor Stone, and a man she'd never seen before stood over her.

The stranger bent down, wrapped one strong hand around her arm and hoisted Talia to her feet. He began to speak, but Talia barely heard, barely registered his authoritarian voice over Donna's victorious sneer.

"Ms. Ghul, I'm placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . ."

The officer's Miranda warnings were sharp stabs of pain in her mind, the assault unexpected yet life threatening.

"This is your sister's entire fault," she spat at Donna. "If she hadn't taken what was mine, none of this would've happened."

Donna's smugness only grew. Then she stepped so close to Talia that her warm, gleeful breath coated her.

"No Talia Ghul, this is you reaping what you've sowed." Her voice lowered even more, to pinpricks of revulsion. "You are such a stupid, arrogant nothing of a female. From day one, my sister knew exactly who you were and the role you played in Bruce's death."

_Impossible. That can't be true. I would've known. _

"Think about it, Talia. Think back to the username and password Diana let you steal. Think Talia, you'll have all the time in the world."

Donna backed away from Talia, disgust and pride in her blue eyes.

"Detective Grayson, you may take out the trash now."

The hostile horde of Wayne employees parted, a human Red Sea shifting to the right and left, allowing the detective to haul her away.

The scene outside the conference room was no better. Unfathomable jeers and curses were thrown at her, as were paper, food, water and other things she didn't even want to think about.

But Detective Grayson didn't stop; he just tugged her along, Talia's hands cuffed behind her back. No better than a common criminal.

This shouldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening, Talia kept telling herself. Closing her eyes and shouting at her sleeping self to wake the hell up.

But nothing happened. The nightmare remained, growing to a feverous pitch when she and the detective exited the building to a flood of cameras and lights.

Question after question were hurled at her.

"Are you the daughter of the criminal mastermind, Ra's al Ghul?"

"Did you have anything to do with the fatal shooting of Bruce Wayne?

"Who did you sell Wayne Industries' secrets to?"

Talia numbly followed Detective Grayson to a black-and-white Gotham City Police Department squad car parked in front of the Wayne building. Placing one hand on top of her head, the detective lowered Talia into the car then slammed the door shut once her legs were inside.

The mob of employees had grown, coldly watching as all her hopes and dreams were spilling down the drain. Spiraling in a disbelieving pattern of Diana Wayne's deception, a dirty war Talia hadn't planned for and had no defense against.

She'd lost.

She'd failed.

Raising her eyes to the employees who stared at her front the windows, Talia noticed the Jumbotron was turned on. And there was something being shown.

Slowly, the back window nearest Talia began to roll down.

"Donna wanted to make sure you saw."

_Saw what? _

But the question was barely formed in her mind when Talia—indeed—saw, the final nail in her own coffin.

There, on the Jumbotron video screen was a HD still image of Talia and Lex Luthor. He was leaning against his desk, shirt open, pants around his ankles, Talia between his legs, and him in her mouth.

Other pictures began to scroll, an M-rated slideshow. But Talia could no longer watch, couldn't stomach the sight of that night being shown to hundreds of people. Thousands and more, if she thought too long on the recording cameras, WLEX included.

"Roll the window back up, Detective Grayson. I've had enough."

Dark eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. They were as heartless as all the others.

Leaving the window down, the detective turned the car on, put it into gear, and drove away. Screams of "slut" and "whore" echoed their exit.

The stolen username and password suddenly flashed in Talia's mind. Username: 1DR WMN. Password: LL DVS WMN. _Wonder Woman. To hell devious woman._

Donna was right; it had all been a deception from the start. The best and worst kind, for it had been a counterattack that neither she, Ra's, nor Luthor had seen coming.

Talia slumped against the seat, and then smiled. If Diana Wayne had managed to get her revenge against Talia, Luthor would be next. If nothing else, that fact alone softened the sting of what Talia knew would be years in prison.

_Years? God help me. _

For on one else would.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	47. Chapter 46: Controlled Chaos

**Chapter 46: Controlled Chaos**

**Strategy 5:** Smaller units are more agile, mobile, and deft.

* * *

**Three Days Ago**

* * *

**Seattle, Washington**

Nyssa al Ghul refused to be routed from her own damn home. From the information Talia had gathered from Wayne Industries, she'd made a lot of money. Businessmen and thugs alike paid well for schematics that could be turned into weapons of mass destruction, helping to fund her father's League of Assassins, as well as Nyssa's own bank account. No need for Talia or Ra's to know about that.

So, no, she wouldn't leave all of that behind because some never-before-heard-of Justice League had bitten off far more than they could chew and swallow. And if anyone dared come for her, she would fight, she would destroy, she would kill. Nyssa was a Ghul, dammit, and Ghuls ran from no one.

Turning off the light in her bedroom, Nyssa stalked to the window that overlooked the front of her house and onto the street below. Not surprisingly, it was raining, but not a heavy downpour, just a light end of summer drizzle. But she swore she'd seen someone watching her when she'd entered her home thirty minutes ago.

Or maybe she only felt eyes on her. That had been happening more and more these last five days. A disturbing sensation she had initially dismissed, but now, well, after nearly a week Nyssa could dismiss the feeling no longer.

She was being tracked.

She _had_ been tracked. And found. _Fine_. _Game on._

Swinging around, Nyssa headed straight for her closet. Flipping on the closet light, she stood on tiptoes, moved a folded blanket from off of a box, and then pulled the hat size box down. Box in hand, Nyssa went to her bed and placed the box on the edge.

Whoever was outside, thinking they could take Nyssa down, would find her more predator than prey.

She plucked the top off, gazed into the box, mind already on how quickly she would load the weapon and how nice the cold, familiar steel always fit in her hand. But it was gone. Magazine clips there, gun gone. _What in the hell?_

Disbelieving, Nyssa whirled in a circle, eyes frantically searching her modest bedroom.

No one. Not a single soul and nothing seemed to be out of place.

But there had to be someone because her gun hadn't fuckin' grown legs and strolled the hell away.

With determined strides, Nyssa went to her nightstand and yanked open the first drawer. Expecting to see—"Shit, where in the world is it?"

"Was that a rhetorical question or do you really want to know? Because," the female voice said from behind Nyssa, "I have a knack for making things disappear then reappear."

Heart pounded.

Gut clenched.

Rage bloomed.

Without thought, with only anger fueling her, Nyssa turned and lunged at the intruder.

She found the missing knife.

"Like I said, in my skilled hands, objects disappear then reappear."

The hunting knife, which Nyssa made sure was death-killing sharp, pressed harshly against her throat.

"You're Nyssa al Ghul, a.k.a Nyssa Raatko, and you are about to disappear from this lovely Seattle suburb." The dark-haired woman smiled. "Poof, just like that. Magic. I've always been a fan of magic."

And, like magic, Nyssa's arms were suddenly wrenched behind her back, unbreakable steel bands around her wrists.

She struggled, but it was no use.

The woman's grin was so loathsome Nyssa wanted to hurl herself at her again.

"I have a lot of money. If you let me go, I can get you all the money you want." This woman had to be a bounty hunter. She was too good to be anything but, and one thing Nyssa knew about bounty hunters it was that they only cared about money. "If you've searched the house" –and Nyssa knew she had— "you probably found the safe in the basement. There's hundreds of thousands of dollars in there. But it's code protected. You won't be able to access it without me. Let me go and I'll give you the code. Just let me go."

"You know," her captor said, taking Nyssa's knife and shoving it into a sheath on her thigh, "you and Talia have the same dishonest eyes, the same selfish spirit, and the same lying tongue. And no heart, how could I forget that, definitely no hearts on the Ghul family tree."

Nyssa could only stare at the woman. If she knew about Talia then she had to be more than a mere bounty hunter out to make a quick buck for capturing a wanted felon.

"You're one of them, aren't you? One of the Justice League?"

Without a word, the woman reached into her pocket and pulled out something shiny. In spite of the closet light, the darkness in the room made it impossible for Nyssa to see. But the woman pinned it to her shirt lapel, and then smiled.

"Perfect. Just so the men and women in blue know who to thank for their collar."

Pushing Nyssa until she fell —face-first— onto her bed, the woman hauled her legs onto the bed then pulled her down until they reached the foot. Removing another pair of metal bands from one of the many pockets on her black cargo pants, she hooked one around Nyssa's right leg and the bottom railing of her bed. She did the same with the other leg.

Off in the distance, Nyssa heard the blare of sirens.

So did the woman.

"That's my cue to leave."

"Y-you can't leave me like this." She struggled, twisting her body until the bands cut into her flesh and blood began to flow. "You can't. I told you, I'll pay."

But the woman wasn't listening. And the sirens were getting closer.

Nyssa fought harder, turning her head, back and forth, unwilling to accept this end for herself. Then she turned back to the woman who'd trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey for the Seattle Police to find. But the woman was gone.

Disappeared.

_Like magic._

* * *

**Paris, France, ****Métro de Paris**

Paris Métro Line 1 was one of the sixteen lines composing the Paris Métro. It connected the La Defense – Grande Arche and Chateau de Vincennes stations. With a 16.5 km length, it constituted an "East-West" route transportation important for the City of Paris. Excluding Reseau Express Regional lines, it was the most utilized subway line on the network with 213 million travelers last year and 725,000 people per day on average.

And it was rush hour, which meant the trains and subway platforms were teaming with people waiting to get on and off.

Ebeneezer Darrk smiled his wicked smile. The one that inevitably formed when a plan came together and people would soon die. He'd been here in 1995 when the Armed Islamic Group was held responsible for three terrorist attacks. The first had been on July 25th. It had been a most glorious gas bottle explosion at Saint-Michel station of line B, killing eight and injuring eighty.

Then another a month later on August 17th at the Arc de Triomphe, seventeen wounded, no deaths. Pity.

There had been other explosions at the famed Paris Métro: Maison Blanche, Musee d'Orsay, Saint-Michel-Notre Dame.

Arrests were made and trials held, but each time Darrk had escaped, easy for a white man when the whole world was looking for brown-skinned Muslims. _Racial profiling, how wonderful._ _Slip in. Slip out. Let the religious zealots take the glory and the blame. _

Because, for Ebeneezer Darrk, only the smell of fire and of burning flesh turning in on itself, mattered. And, of course, the tears and utter terror that always came afterward. That was delicious as well; enough to bring a man like him back to La Ville-Lumière, The City of Light, time and again.

But this attack would be different from the others. He'd traded in explosives for poisons, not as eye-catching, true, but far more effective and far-reaching.

Pulling a gas mask from his backpack, Darrk slid it over his face. It was time. Hiding behind a large, white column on the platform, Darrk reached into his pants pocket and hit the detonation switch just as the train pulled in and stopped.

People began piling off and on the train.

And Darrk waited, waited for the sacrifices to begin falling to the ground, bodies slowly filling with poison.

He waited, wanted to see the shock in their eyes as the toxin seeped inside and began to eat away at their organs.

He waited, needing to hear the frantic gurgling sounds as bile rose and lungs clasped.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

He pushed the detonation button again.

Nothing.

Then the train was gone.

No slumped bodies.

No death poses.

No frantic gasping.

Nothing.

Silence.

Darrk ventured another look at the platform.

A solitary woman stood there. She raised a gun, the odd, long shape of it evident even through his gas mask. Her words were clipped but clear when they came.

"My friends like to call me Hawkgirl. As you can see, I'm no girl or have wings."

No she wasn't. No girl Darrk had ever seen leaked iron will through her every pore. _No woman either._

He began to calculate the distance between him and the woman, wondering if he could make it up the escalator before she caught or shot him. He didn't like the chances or her next words.

"This tranquilizer gun is full of the poison you intended for the people on that train. Consider that your last act of terrorism. The Prefecture of Police is looking for you . . . and will find you."

With the hand not holding the gun aimed at his chest, she tossed him metal cuffs, the kind typically worn at the ankles.

"Put it on."

"And if I don't?"

"Ebeneezer Darrk is a master of ambushes, death traps, concealed weapons, and poisons. Ebeneezer Darrk is a master of distance warfare."

Reaching in her waistband, the woman calling herself Hawkgirl pulled out a second gun. This one he knew was not a tranquilizer gun. "For all of that, Ebeneezer Darrk is a master coward, playing God but afraid to bleed for his cause."

The safety on the gun clicked. It lowered to his leg. His knee.

"Put it on or I'll shoot you then still make you put it on."

He put it on.

She tossed him another set of cuffs.

"Now your wrists. Nice and snug."

He did as she said, thankful when she lowered both guns.

Staying where she was, the woman slid one more thing at him. Darrk looked down.

It was a gold pendant with two letters: _JL._

Darrk looked back up, the mysterious Hawkgirl was gone but the next train had just arrived.

When it stopped, so did his heart.

Ten men in dark blue riot gear got off, the red, white, and blue of the Police Nationale badge crowded his vision. Then their big bodies did as they surrounded him. One picked up the pendant beside Daark's left foot, and then glanced around the platform, presumably looking for the woman. Not finding her, the officer pocketed the pendant then said in a booming voice, "Merci beaucoup, Justice League."

* * *

**Peng-Chau, Hong Kong**

The helicopter overhead whipped up dust clouds. The old man shielded his eyes and watched as the bird landed in front of the Tin Hau temple. Across the side of the massive winged beast were two words: Lady Blackhawk.

He smiled, so the League had sent a woman after him. His smile broadened when the doors to the 'copter opened and a woman, not the pilot, jumped out_. Even better. Two women for one old man._

"Sensei?" the dark-haired beauty said, posing it more as a question than a statement. But she had to know precisely whom he was, for no strangers traveled to the northeastern coast of Lantau Island. And the small town of Peng-Chau wasn't so far removed from civilization that he hadn't heard of the Justice League and knew they were after him for old and not so old crimes.

He stroked one hand down his long chinned beard, cautious eyes watching the approaching woman as well as the silent pilot.

He needed her much closer. He had no distance weapons, but once she got into range, his hands and legs would be all the weapons he required.

Sixty feet.

Forty.

Thirty.

_Closer. Just a little more, my pet, then you'll be mine._

Twenty-five.

_Yes, a little more._

She stopped.

_Not close enough. Dammit._

"So you've been sent to kill me? A mere girl against a master martial artist? The League insults me, girl, and flatters you."

The way she stared at him mocked and belittled, so much the way of youth today. Where was the respect for one's elders? Not here. Not in the child's eyes who'd come to take him from this peaceful place, the locals his to control, to rule.

Yet they were now hiding in their homes, thinking their betrayal would earn them their freedom. They were mistaken. And once he killed the females, Sensei would make sure no one spoke against him ever again. Tongues were required for that, and he intended to take every incriminating one.

"What are you waiting for, girl? Here I am, come claim your golden fleece."

She didn't move, just stared, a silent challenge in her eyes.

Ah, she knew, knew he required her to move ten more paces to be within ideal killing range. She knew, and she didn't move, giving him cold calculation instead.

_The impudent child. Ideal or not, you're mine._

With the speed of a cheetah, Sensei pivoted to the left then bolted forward. Hand shot out, bent into tiger claws, ready to rip the girl's throat out.

Yes, this was the way it would end, with the American whelp crumpled at his bare feet, throat open, blood seeping from her in slow rivulets of death.

He could feel it, her skin, the soft flesh on the tips of his fingers.

_Thunk_

Sensei dropped back, hand fell, knees gave out.

Pain.

His.

Blood.

His.

Unable to register what had happened, he felt then saw the arrow embedded in his shoulder. It had pierced him all the way through.

Sensei stared up at the girl. Her handheld crossbow pointed at his head. Where had that come from? He hadn't seen her carrying a weapon. And she'd moved so fast. _Faster than me._

"I haven't been sent to kill you, old man," the girl said, finally speaking. "If that were the case," —she gestured to the helicopter behind her, blades still churning— "I would've simply let my partner shoot you when we approached and be done with all this hunting. Now stand up so we can deliver you to the Hong Kong Police."

With effort, Sensei stood, not yet defeated. Breaking the end of the arrow sticking from his shoulder, he gripped it in his hand and swiped at the girl, once again going for a killing blow.

She lunged back, quick and agile. Raising her crossbow, she fired.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Shoulder. Both legs.

He dropped back to the ground.

Covering the mid-day sun, the girl loomed over him, face impassive as she stared down at him. "Lady Blackhawk hates blood in her 'copter." She tsked. "Good thing I thought to bring plastic sheets to cover the seats. Now, let's try this again. Stand up."

An indeterminable amount of time later, Sensei was dropped unceremoniously in front of the Hong Kong Police Station, wrapped in plastic sheets with a gold pendant pinned to his red gi.

* * *

**Near the U.S.-Mexico Border**

The fog rolling off the Pacific Ocean was especially thick tonight. Perfect for illegal crossings, Phillipus knew. Drug runners waited days and weeks for nights like tonight, while others, men, women, and children whose only crime was illegal border crossing, attempted a crossing into the California hills, leaving from the Mexican town of Tecate. Then there were others, normally the more inexperienced, who moved along the oft-traveled 261-mile long Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona, running into steel barriers and difficult to scale fences.

Yet there were those who were desperate or fool enough to risk the rapids of the ocean by swimming.

And while drug runners had a monopoly on the tunnels they dug, taking them from Mexico into the United States, others with enough money to purchase passage on a fishing boat from one of south Tijuana's small fishing villages, like Popotla, had a much better chance of making it across the border.

Which was exactly what the passengers aboard the boat Phillipus had in her sights had done. They'd secured a boat in Popotla, waited for a night when the fog was thick, hiding their movement, and then set out, traveling along the coast that wasn't as heavily policed.

And right now, no border patrol could see the fishing vessel approach, but Phillipus could. Her infrared goggles brought the boat and its crew into clear focus.

She spotted eight men. The same eight she'd seen in a Tijuana bar three days ago. And, after lining the pockets of a couple of locals, Phillipus learned all she needed about the eight men.

One was Ra's al Ghul, which she already knew. The seven others were known as Ghul's "7 Men of Death." Apparently, they were the League of Assassins deadliest assassins: Detonator, Merlyn, Hook, Maduvu, Razorburn, Shellcase, and Whip, the sole female of the group. They were Ghul's bodyguards, his personal hit squad, answerable to only the man himself.

And Phillipus had never heard of group, but, from the looks of them, they were as deadly as their name.

It was then she'd decided. Diana's plan, at least the first part, would not work, not with the likes of the 7 Men of Death. The seven could not be taken in peacefully, such coldhearted murderers lived for the kill but viewed death as honorable and imprisonment a coward's way out. No way would they go softly or quietly.

Worst, they were an unknown element in Diana's war. With the other assassins Huntress, Zatanna, and Shayera had gone after, at least Phillipus knew they were wanted on multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, and other felonies. The local police would gladly accept them. These men, however, Phillipus couldn't be sure they were wanted at all, especially since she had nothing but their street names to go by and no time to gather more Intel. If caught by the Border Patrol, they would hold them then send them back to Mexico, only for the seven to try again later. Eventually, they would make the crossing and go after Diana and her family.

Phillipus refused to allow that to happen.

The boat was even nearer now, the assassins' rugged faces and cruel eyes solidifying Phillipus's earlier decision. But it gave her no pleasure, changing Diana's strategy from controlled chaos to annihilation.

One unbidden tear trickled down Phillipus's cheek. For three years, she'd had a home in Gotham with Diana and her family. She would miss that, the sisterly bond, the family gatherings. But all of that would come to a crashing end if she let these deadly seven go free. She couldn't allow that to happen. _Won't permit that to happen._

No, she and the others would simply disappear. No one would ever know what would happen here tonight. They would leave no evidence, nothing that could be tracked back to Diana or the Justice League. Diana, her friend, would assume that half of her Furies had moved on to the next job. She would be hurt, because Phillipus could offer no goodbye. She couldn't return to Gotham after tonight and live a life of lies, just to maintain a friendship she valued above most things. Diana was no fool. She would soon figure it out.

Phillipus didn't want to be there when Diana's eyes filled with sadness and guilt at how far her general had gone to protect her charge. And since they were friends, Diana would keep her secret. Phillipus didn't want that either, didn't want blood, lies, and deception between them.

No, but she did want Diana to be happy. And she could be, would be. That happily-ever-after was just over the horizon for her friend. Yet she would never reach that day if her Furies failed her now.

They wouldn't fail her. It was not an option.

Phillipus glanced to her right – Barda – to her left – Katana.

They nodded - a silent confirmation of a pact borne of love, sisterhood, and duty.

The vessel didn't come to shore. It stopped a couple of hundred feet from the shore where three of the Furies lay in wait.

The men began to dive into the water. One by one, they jumped, Ghul the third to hit the cold, murky water.

The Furies stood from their hiding places, lifted rifles with scopes and silencers and quickly, decisively annihilated the 7 Deadly Men.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Silence.

Katana pointed her weapon at Ghul's head, prepared to make the kill shot. Phillipus stopped her.

"No, he must live."

"Are you sure?"

Not entirely, but Diana's plan involved Ghul making it back to New York.

"Yes."

Katana lowered her weapon.

They all did. There was nothing else to shoot, no bobbing heads in the water. It had taken a mere thirty seconds to rid the world of seven wretched carnivores of death and destruction.

But what did that make Phillipus, Barda and Katana?

Heroes?

Saviors?

She thought not.

There was never any true glory in the kill, not if the one doing the killing still had a soul and a conscience. Phillipus, Barda, and Katana had both.

Another tear fell. They no longer had Diana Wayne and the Justice League, but Diana and her League would always have the Furies.

And when Diana needed them, they would be there.

Phillipus raised a flashlight, pointed it toward the ocean and the ship.

On. Off. On. Off.

A return light came from the boat.

On. Off. On. Off.

Slowly, the fishing boat turned then disappeared into the late night fog, an expensive service to the Furies complete.

Phillipus lifted her infrared goggles. Ghul had made it to shore and was dragging his soaked body toward the fence. He would make it, not because he had what it took to haul his sorry ass over but because she'd cut a convenient hole in the fence earlier in the night, ensuring his escape.

She also hired a coyote, Rhonda Pineda, who will just happen to be having "car trouble" when Ghul finally makes it to the other side of the fence, guaranteeing him passage to New York. Then Diana's plan would be back on track.

"What do we do now?" Barda asked.

Phillipus slumped to the ground, eyes going to the sky.

"Watch the sun rise, my friend." Barda and Katana joined her.

_And pray for our souls._

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	48. Chapter 47: Calm Before the Storm

**Chapter 47: Calm Before the Storm**

**Metropolis**

Lex Luthor stood outside the Zephrymore Building, a towering edifice of gleaming glass. Lifting bloodshot eyes to the night sky, Lex recalled the first day he'd moved into the building, claiming it his home away from LexCorp. And he'd made it just that, a place of solitude and contemplation. A place above the world, a place where kings lived and gods reigned.

Stony, hollow eyes lowered to the black-and-white "Available For Lease" sign on the front door.

His home.

No longer.

It was gone, ripped away like everything else. LexTowers was supposed to be his new home, his new kingdom in the sky, but that, too, was but a denied dream.

He had no home.

No LexCorp.

No banks.

A soiled reputation.

Since Talia's arrest, the media had been abuzz about the charges and her possible link to the murder of Bruce and Baby Wayne. Worst, the sensationalist among the media, ran with the pictures of Lex and Talia. Even his own WLEX hadn't let his ownership of the company prevent them from covering the story. He guessed it was their way of getting back at him for the hostile takeover a year ago.

Right now, Lex Luthor was everyone's favorite whipping boy, from the bottom feeders on up.

_The Daily Planet_, his next intended acquisition, had delivered the final blow two days ago. The headline had been bold and tacky, what Lex would expect from an Editor-in-Chief like Perry White. "Lying Luthor for Governor? Where is a Superman When We Need One?"

Part one of the story had run in the morning paper, followed by part two in the evening and concluding the series the next morning with part three. And it was all there, everything he'd feared Wayne had had on him, Ghul, and their illegal business dealings. Not all, but enough to send Lex fleeing his office before the Metropolis PD or the FBI came for him.

But not just law enforcement hunted him now. Darker, uglier dregs of society wanted him as well. Talia, damn her stupid soul, had allowed Wayne to feed her worthless Intel. And Lex, in turn, had sold the information to the highest bidders, assured of the sale and the quality of the product. Now, some of those men wanted their money returned, claiming flawed designs and inaccurate data and calculations. Others, well, others just wanted him dead for embarrassment and pride sake.

But they would be claiming neither money nor his life. Most of his personal accounts had been depleted, handed away to charities, a hackers dream program and Lex's endless nightmare. And while he could normally tap into the monetary resources from one of his banks, the FDIC had shut down all his passwords and accounts, even his secret ones, which meant they'd finally broken Mr. White.

Turning away from a home that now belonged to Wayne Industries, Lex lowered the bill of the baseball cap he wore, slid hands into denim pockets, and began his trek back to the Red Roof Inn. A cheap, dingy hideout no one would expect to find Lex Luthor, which was good if he wanted to stay alive and out of jail long enough to make his escape.

But he wouldn't be leaving just yet. Not until he'd gotten word that his game-ending move had been executed. Diana Wayne may have thought she had his balls in a vice but the bitch would be gagging on them twenty-four hours from now, knowing, as she died, that no one waged war against Lex Luthor . . . _and survived._

* * *

**At the same time . . .**

Ra's al Ghul knew Lex's office like the back of his hand. He'd been inside enough times, taking note of every detail, the secret passage that led from his ensuite to a stairwell and a convenient alleyway exit, which he made use of today.

He was exhausted. The travel here had not been what he'd expected. His hit squad was no more, killed in a volley of bullets he neither saw nor heard. The fog was simply too thick, but not so thick he couldn't hear each shocked exhalation as each of his assassins met their end.

Ra's knew he'd been lucky. He'd taken cover under the water as soon as he'd realized they were under attack. His lungs burned but he'd kept swimming, holding his breath as long as he could before coming back up for air and then going under again. He did this repeatedly until he'd reached land, scrambling out of the water and to the fence separating the United States from Mexico.

He'd found a small hole in the fence that had obviously been cut by illegals. Thankful, he slithered through and made his way to the closest highway. That was when he saw her, a Latina struggling with a tire iron and a flat tire. He'd helped her change the tire then purchased the old pickup from her with soggy hundreds. She didn't mind and Ra's had transportation.

Now, five days later, he was in Luthor's office, expecting to find the man behind his opulent desk. But he wasn't there, and the normally immaculate space looked as if a typhoon had hit. Papers, folders, books, and miscellaneous office junk was everywhere, littering the floor, desk, and bookshelves. Stacks of opened and unopened mail covered Luthor's black, leather executive chair. _What happened here?_

That was the critical question. Ra's had been out of touch these past few days, keeping to the back roads on the way to New York, only stopping for gas and other essentials. But he stayed in no place long. He didn't speak to anyone, kept his head down and away from gas station and food mart cameras. He wanted no one to know he was in the country, least of all the Justice League and Lex Luthor.

But, from the looks of Luthor's office, a lot had taken place while Ra's had been trying to reach the man he intended to kill. This mess with Diana Wayne and the Justice League was Luthor's fault. Lex and his brilliant ideas, Lex and his endless machinations, Lex and his stubborn arrogance had killed Ra's hit squad, put his entire League of Assassins in the spotlight, and had every law enforcement agency in the country after him.

They should've finished Wayne's widow three years ago. That had been Ghul's suggestion. But Luthor had thought their earlier plan was still salvageable, convinced Diana Wayne could be controlled and manipulated, first by the Wayne Industries' board he'd paid off then my Talia who'd gone in as a spy. He'd been wrong on both accounts, now it seems they were all to pay for Luthor's stupidity.

It was best, Ra's had learned as a boy, to cut one's losses before they grew. Now, well, that also included Lex Luthor. _But I need to find the damn man._

The office door creaked then opened. An older woman stepped inside, stared at the dark, messy office, and shook her head. She stepped further in, arms full of more unopened mail.

Ra's moved from behind the opened door and gently pushed until it closed.

The woman jumped, Sally, he knew her name to be, Luthor's ever-faithful secretary.

"Don't turn around."

She began to tremble, dropping the letters at her feet.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Sally, I only want answers. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded.

"Good, what's in all the letters?"

She said nothing at first, her rounded shoulders shaking with fear.

Good, fear always loosened the tongue.

"Answer me, Sally."

Finally she did, low but audible. "H-hate mail."

"Hate mail? Why?"

The woman began to cry but spoke through the tears. "For everything. It's all out, all gone, everyone knows and the people of Metropolis now hate Mr. Luthor."

Quite a bit obviously happened while Ra's was out of touch.

Sally pointed to the floor. A crumpled sheet of newspaper lay at her feet.

"Pick it up and show me. Don't turn around when you do it, just pick it up and hold it for me to see."

She did as he said, carefully unfurling the paper before lifting it to her side. He read the headline: "Luthor the Lusty for Governor?" Under the headline was a vulgar picture no father should ever see. The faces had been blacked-out but Ra's knew who they were, who Luthor had pinned under him on his desk, rutting like the foul beast he was.

"Where is he? At home?"

Sally shook her head, still sobbing.

"Then where, Sally? Tell me where I can find your boss."

"I-I don't know where he is tonight."

Which wasn't the same as her not knowing where he would be tomorrow or the next day.

"Tell me what you do know then I'll let you go home so you can begin dusting off that resume of yours. And, Sally," he warned, "don't leave anything out. I'd hate to have to come back here."

She nodded then began talking.

* * *

**Lake George Adirondacks, New York**

"It's beautiful, Clark."

Clark and Diana stood at the foot of the wooden steps that led to his Adirondack log home. The sale finalized only a month ago, unlike the year he'd told Donna. This wasn't at all how he planned on revealing his purchase to Diana, but circumstances being what they were, this secluded home was their best option.

"Let me show you the inside."

Diana followed Clark, her blue eyes taking in their late summer surroundings, the day perfect for swimming, fishing, or just a leisurely stroll down to the private beach. All the reasons why he bought the home, Lake George village only five miles away, the Great Escape eight miles, Saratoga Springs twenty minutes. Then there were the bike trails, hiking, and horseback riding, everything they would need for a private weekend or vacation getaway.

But it was now ruined, or it would be in a day or two.

The cathedral ceilings was the first selling feature of the house Clark had noticed when the realtor had showed him the home. Then the beautiful oak wood floors and paneling had caught his eye. The fireplace had given him images of cold winter nights, hot chocolate and a naked Diana snuggled up against him on a warm, soft, bear rug in front of a roaring fire.

"It has six bedrooms, four baths and a full basement. It has no pool or hot tub but, if you like, we could . . ."

Diana turned her gaze away from the empty living room and to Clark, eyes questioning.

"Why do you need so much space? When you mentioned a getaway home, I expected a little cabin where you went to focus on your writing." She looked up at the ceiling with its equal sloping sides that met in the middle of the room at the ridge then back at him. "This is so much more than a simple cabin in the woods for a dedicated novelist. And why would I care if your home has a hot tub or pool?"

He considered lying to her. A brief thought that quickly died the longer she stared at him. Instead of lying or telling the truth he wasn't quite ready to admit to, Clark said, "Can we table that discussion for later? I wanted to give you the grand tour, then I thought we could drive to where Manny and Sam are staying."

There was only one road to and from the log cabin, and on the route were two other cabins. Once Diana had learned of Clark's cabin, she'd smartly decided to rent the only other homes in the vicinity, ensuring no innocent bystanders got in the way or were hurt. Better yet, Manny and Sam would know precisely when Diana's deadly guests arrived since they would be staying in the rental homes.

"Sounds like a good idea."

Taking her hand, Clark began the tour in the living room, showing Diana the first level, moving on to the basement, and then the second level, and ending with the master bedroom.

Once entering, Diana laughed. "This is the only room with furniture."

He couldn't help but grin sheepishly. There was nothing in the room but a king-size, four-poster bed with canopy, giving the room a feel of Old World Spain with its exquisitely crafted Birch solids with Cherry, Pecan, and Elm Burl veneers. The distinctive marquetry and intricate embellishments complimented the classic chestnut finish. Yet there was space enough in the room for the matching dressers and nightstands that would be delivered in the next few days.

"I thought you told Donna you bought this cabin months ago?"

"That was just part of the act for Talia."

Her look said she knew he was keeping something from her, but Diana said nothing more, just moved to the expansive bed, removed her shoes, and climbed in.

She lay sprawled in the middle of the bed, another image he'd had, naked, of course, instead of fully clothed.

Then he saw it, the weariness that had been with Diana since the day of the board meeting, all her plans having come nearly full circle. And her strategic war had been brilliant.

And dangerous.

And ruthless.

And she was tired. It was all there in the blank way she stared at the underside of the canopy, her body sinking into the mattress as if she wished it to fly her away from the final chess move – checkmate or death.

Clark removed his shoes and climbed in next to her, gathering Diana in his arms.

She'd escalated the attack on her enemies. At first, Clark hadn't understood the rush. Until one evening he'd gone to C.J.'s room to tuck him in for the night. But Diana was already there, speaking to his son about his first day of kindergarten. C.J., as usual, had been animated. Talking a mile a minute, while Diana quietly listened, nodding at the appropriate times. Then she had turned to see him standing in the doorway and the smile he'd expected wasn't there, just sadness and regret.

The next day, she revised the timeline of her plan, conveniently bringing it to fruition the weekend before C.J.'s first day of school. This weekend.

Loving hands stroked long, wavy, dark hair.

She wanted to guarantee C.J. would be at home and safely able to attend his first day of school and not locked away at Wayne Manor, missing that particular milestone in his young life. And Clark had recalled the conversation they'd had during their date at his jazz club. Clark had told Diana about how special C.J.'s first day of pre-K had been for Clark and Lois. Clearly, she hadn't forgotten, unwilling to deny Clark and Lois the special day either.

And that realization had only made him love Diana more.

"I'm worried about Phillipus, Barda, and Katana."

"Why? Phillipus contacted you, told you all with Ghul had gone well."

"I know." She twisted until they were facing each other. "But that was five days ago, I haven't heard from any of them since."

As far as Clark knew, all the Furies and Birds of Prey had checked in with Diana, giving her the good news of their successful missions. There had been only one incident of bloodshed and that had been with Helena Bertinelli's mission. That had upset Diana. Despite the tracking down and capturing of killers, she'd wanted no one harmed, no deaths on her conscience. But, apparently, the Sensei had attacked Helena and the Fury had responded with force. Not deadly force—thank god—but enough that the Hong Kong Police had sent him to the hospital for a day before taking the assassin to prison.

"I'm sure Phillipus and the others will be in touch."

"She should've been home by now. And she's no longer answering her cell or returned any of my messages. The same for Barda and Katana. It's as if . . . I don't know, Clark. For all that we argue and fight, the Furies are family, sisters, so much more than hired help, especially Phillipus. I thought she understood."

"I'm sure she does. Just as I'm sure she has a good reason for staying out of touch."

"But why would she? That's the part I don't get."

Yeah, neither did Clark. Phillipus loved Diana, would do anything for her. That much was clear. So, no, he had no idea why half of Diana's Furies now had MIA status, but it did explain a lot about Diana's current mood.

"I'm sure when she's ready, Phillipus will contact you, until then, trust that she's fine and knows what she's doing."

Mollified but far from satisfied, Diana curled herself against him.

"You want to nap now, don't you?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

She didn't respond, just burrowed deeper into Clark.

He held her, and didn't stop holding her until she awoke three hours later.

Five hours after that, they were back at the log cabin, having met and finalized plans with Manny and Sam, eaten dinner in town, and toured the grounds around the house. Now it was time for bed and Clark knew time for him to tell Diana the full truth about the house.

They'd already showered and were dressed for bed. Not that Clark ever wore much, just boxers. Diana, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, wore a sexy pair of silk shorts with a matching white camisole.

They sat on top of the covers talking about everything except what would likely take place tomorrow night.

"I have a confession."

"Don't tell me," she began, surprising good humor ringing in Diana's voice, "you were the one who got into Alfred's stash of double-stuffed Oreo cookies."

He laughed. "Well, I guess I have two confessions. Double-stuffed Oreos should be illegal. I swear, I think they went straight to my thunder thighs."

They both laughed, and Clark wished to make Diana laugh and smile for the rest of their lives.

"Well, I have a little confession about the log cabin."

"What about the cabin?"

Clark jumped from the bed, found the jeans he'd had on earlier, and grabbed the house keys from a pants pocket. Returning to the bed, he handed the key ring to Diana.

She frowned but took the key ring from him.

"It's yours."

"What's mine?"

"The cabin, Diana. It's yours."

Brows furrowed in confusion. "Why in the world would you buy me a house?"

Yeah, the million dollar question. "Because you need a place away from Gotham. You need a home that won't remind you of crazy men and guns. You need fresh air, relaxation, and an outrageously huge bed for napping during the middle of the day." He touched her satiny soft cheek. "Not for every day, just for when you need to get away, to find your center."

She closed her eyes, and Clark hoped she understood what he was saying. In case she didn't, he kept talking.

"It was supposed to be my wedding gift to you. I thought we would find and purchase a permanent house together, somewhere between Gotham and Metropolis where C.J. wouldn't have to change schools and you wouldn't have to drive so far to get to Wayne Industries. But I figured we would work out all the details before the wedding."

Tear-filled eyes opened, and the happiness Clark prayed to see within wasn't there. Diana dropped her head in her hands and began to sob.

Clark kept talking. He didn't know what else to do. The last time he'd proposed, Diana had cried then, too, but they had been joyful tears not the heart wracking ones coming from her now, burning his soul.

"You love me, Diana, and want me, in your life as well as your bed." Not arrogance, just undeniable truth. "And I love and want you. There's no one else for me. And, dammit, you don't want anyone other than me."

She stopped crying and lifted red, tortured eyes. God, how he wanted to console her, but Diana had to do this on her own. He would meet her half way, but the rest of the journey was for her to make.

"I-I can't give you children, Clark." Her words were a soggy whimpered confession that held no import to Clark. But clearly weighed heavily on Diana's heart and mind. "My doctor's not sure whether I can conceive, and if I do, she can't guarantee I can carry another baby to term." Hopeless eyes met his. "I can't lose another child, Clark. I don't think I'd survive if I lost your child, too."

His heart broke for Diana. She so desperately wanted to become a mother, but was equally as afraid of carrying the burden of another failed pregnancy. Not that the first had been her fault.

"What if I told you, my sweet Diana, that we have enough love between the two of us to fill this house and another with children in need of a good home and two loving parents? Jonathan and Martha Kent did it, why couldn't we?"

"Adoption?" She said the word as if it were a novel concept.

He smiled, the simple thought had clearly never crossed the brilliant woman's mind. Understandable, it wasn't an ideal solution. Clark was sure Diana had only ever wanted to conceive, carry, and birth her own children. But adoption was a viable option she needed to consider. Besides, Diana would make such a wonderful mother. She'd already proven her capacity for great love and sensitivity with C.J.

"The only thing I want to know, Diana, is if you want to marry me. Forget about what will happen tomorrow. Forget about the cabin. Forget about all the ways we messed up ten years ago. And forget your fears. Forget all that stuff and look me in the eye and tell me what you truly want."

For long, excruciating minutes, Diana only stared at him, unblinking, unsmiling. Then she came to Clark, crawled into his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, placed a sweet kiss to his neck and began to sing to him.

Low.

Soft.

Magical.

"'The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the end of the skies'"

Two weeks ago, Clark had asked Diana about her nightly ritual of singing to C.J. She'd told him she'd only ever sang for Brina. No one else, not even Bruce, and now she sang for Clark, her melodic contralto voice as lovely as Lois had said.

"'And the first time ever I kissed your mouth

I felt the earth move in my hand

Like the trembling heart of a captive bird

That was there at my command, my love'"

Her hand came to rest over his wildly beating heart, the organ more Diana's than Clark's.

"'And the first time ever I lay with you

I felt your heart so close to mine

And I knew our joy would fill the earth

And last, till the end of time, my love'"

Diana raised her head and their blue eyes locked. She caressed his face.

"'The first time ever I saw your face

Your face

Your face

Your face . . .'"

Tender lips met Clark's. "I love you," she breathed against his lips. "I love you and want nothing more than to become your wife, to fill this lovely home with our children. And your face is all that matters, the one that smiles at me with hope, faith, and love."

She kissed him again.

Then showed Clark exactly how much she wanted to be his wife. And when Diana took her turn on top, she sang him another song, the lyrics sensual, erotic and all for her fiancée.

And when blissful, sweaty lovemaking turned into deep, satiated slumber, Clark held Diana close, no longer afraid of what tomorrow would bring. Those men who'd hurt Diana three years ago wouldn't find the same vulnerable woman. And, unlike poor Bruce, Clark knew they were coming, and was prepared for the bastards.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	49. Chapter 48: Intelligence, End Game

**Chapter 48: Intelligence**

**Strategy 5:** Know your opponent's moves and do not let your motives be known. Understand their way of thinking.

* * *

**End Game**

**Metropolis, LexAir**

An hour ago, Lex Luthor had arrived at LexAir, his pride and joy. _My salvation. _The airline and LexOil were all he had left of his empire. Diana Wayne had taken everything else, but she hadn't divested him of his best means of escaping her spider's web. _An amateur and costly oversight._

But nothing at the airport was as it should have been. There was no staff, no landing or leaving planes, nothing but emergency building lights and dreaded silence. Not at all how his airline should be on a Saturday evening.

Something was wrong.

The feeling of wrongness only grew when Lex couldn't contact Sally. She should've been at the airport when he'd arrived, should've had taken care of his flight plans, should've brought him clothing, cash, fake identification, from his office safe, and a host of other supplies Lex desperately needed. But the secretary was nowhere around, nor was she answering her work or cell phone. _It's not like Sally to be late. She would've called. She would've contacted me if something was wrong._

That thought caused Lex to worry even more. Sally was as reliable as employees came. And, as much as Lex was willing to trust anyone, he trusted Sally Wiggins. But Sally wasn't here, and neither was anyone else.

Lex needed to get the hell out of Metropolis now. Trains and commercial airlines were out of the question. So was driving. He was sure, by now, the FBI was searching for him, with a description of all his vehicles. Without the fake ids, car rental was not going to happen. And, without access to more cash than he currently had in his wallet, paying someone to drive him out of state was also out of the question. This he already knew, which was the reason why he'd asked Sally to contact his personal pilot and put the man on emergency standby. Greg, like Sally, should've been here, airplane raring to go.

_Maybe he's in the pilot's locker room._

Striding like the man on a mission he was, Lex made his way to the employee hallways, turning corners and jogging down stairs until he reached the pilot's locker room. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. The light was on but all Lex saw were rows of green storage lockers and no Greg, no pilot.

Lex cursed foully.

Without his pilot, getting out of New York would be damn near impossible. Everyone knew the face of Lex Luthor. His baseball cap, tattered blue jeans and Yankees T-shirt wasn't much of a disguise. He looked like one of those bums who stood in front of LexCorp, begging for money, too lazy or stupid to get a job and be a real man. What self-respecting man demeaned himself like that, groveling for handouts, living off the charity of others?

And that was what Diana Wayne had virtually reduced Lex to, forcing him to put his life in the hands of a secretary whose only claim to fame was that she worked for the brilliant Lex Luthor. Now, apparently, Sally's charity had dried up, abandoning him to vagrancy and desperation.

A fist slammed into the closest locker. It hurt. Lex did it again. And again. And again.

"What did that locker ever do to you, man?"

Lex's head whipped around. A man, tall and frowning, stood at the end of the aisle of lockers. He wore a LexAir pilot's jacket but Lex didn't recognize him. Whatever, he couldn't possibly be expected to know all the pilots in his employ. But if the stranger was a pilot, he would do, and the hell with the missing Greg.

"Where's everyone? Why isn't the airport open for business?"

The man scoffed, lifted a duffel bag then began to walk towards Lex.

"You must be living under a rock or something. I just stopped by to clear out my locker. I suggest you do the same, buddy."

The man made to push by Lex, clearly intent on leaving. Lex stood in his way, wanting answers but also needing a favor. The image of a dirty, bearded homeless guy with a "Will work for food" sign in his unclean hands crossed Lex's mind. Only three weeks ago, he'd called LexCorp security to remove the man from in front of his building. A down-on-his-luck bum wasn't the image of LexCorp. His cries of, "I just need a little help. I'm not hurting anyone standing here," now rung in Lex's ears.

He needed this stranger's help. And, like the bum, would do nearly anything to get it. But, unlike the bum, once he had the man's help and was back on his feet, he had a list of people he desired to hurt, beginning with the Wayne Industries' Board of Directors.

"What's your problem? Get out of my way."

Removing his cap, Lex lifted his chin, giving the man a good long look. It didn't take long for recognition to hit.

"Well, as I live and breathe, it's the man himself."

"Anyone else here?"

"Not that I've seen. But I think most of the staff came in yesterday to clear out their belongings or just to hang around to see if things would change with LexOil."

Lex didn't understand any of this. The man was talking in riddles.

The stranger dropped his duffel bag at his feet and shook his head. "You don't even know what's going on, do you?" Another shake of his head. "I guess you been laying low, waiting for the heat to pass. Don't blame you, really. If I were in your shoes, I'd do the same."

Lex knew enough to know he was a hunted man. All the other crap that had befallen him, Sally was supposed to be taking care of. He was overdue for an update. That was supposed to happen tonight when he met with his secretary. Seems the stranger would provide him with that update instead.

"From what I understand, two weeks ago, the Zambesi government stopped supplying LexOil."

"They _what_?"

"Hey, hey," the man raised his hands placatingly, "don't kill the messenger. I'm just telling you what I know. You're upset, I get it, but I'm out of a job."

That explained a lot. No fuel, no LexOil, no flights, no LexAir. _Fuck. That scheming witch did it to me again. I would kill her myself if she wouldn't already be dead in a couple of hours._

"Well, if you're interested, I have a job for you."

The man snorted then hauled his bag off the floor and back onto a brawny shoulder. "No offense, Mr. Luthor, from the way you look, you don't have a pot to piss in."

The urge to slam his fist into the man's jaw, the way he had the locker, crossed his mind but quickly died. He needed the tactless jerk.

"You're right, I don't have much to my name right now but I do own my personal jet. For one flight, it can be all yours."

An emotion Lex knew quite well crept into the man's eyes – avarice. What pilot didn't desire his own bird? None that Lex had known, and it was to be Greg's payment for tonight's mission. The pilot had coveted the HondaJet ever since Lex had purchased it four months ago, but one pilot was as good as another. It didn't matter to Lex who inherited the jet. He couldn't fly himself. He just needed out of the state, out of the country, preferably. Cuba would do nicely. Lex had a few holdings there, enough to get him through until he settled on his next course of action. But right now, away from Metropolis would have to be enough.

"After you fly me out of here, it'll all be yours. Keep it. Sell it. It doesn't matter to me, as long as you use it to get me the hell away from Metropolis."

"What if it's not fueled? Or doesn't have enough for where you'd like me to take you?"

Good questions. But Lex was sure they could find enough fuel for a flight, even if they had to siphon it from one of the plans on the tarmac. Hell, even if they couldn't find enough to take Lex as far as he wanted to go, as long as he got out of the state, he could manage the rest.

"Between the two of us, I'm sure we can figure something out." Lex raised his hand to the man. "I'm Lex Luthor, as you already know, and you are?"

The stranger lifted and extended his hand, shaking Lex's with a firm grip. "I guess I'm the new owner of a Honda Jet and your pilot for the evening. Jordan, Hal Jordan."

* * *

**Lake George Adirondacks, New York**

"Stop the truck. We get out here and walk the rest of the way. We don't want them to know we're here until we pounce." Bane pointed off the road and to the towering trees to his right. "We can hide the truck over there. If we park it there—yes there—no one will be able to spot it from the road."

Not that he thought anyone around to notice. Still, a man like himself could never be too cautious. They'd passed two homes a mile or so back. No cars were in the driveways and no lights on in the homes. It was late summer and not yet Labor Day weekend, so the places would probably be vacant for another few days or so. By then, well, by then it wouldn't matter. The job would be done.

Joker parked the car in the secluded spot. The skinny man really needed to come up with a better street name. He was crazy, true, but he looked as if he'd missed a meal or two and a man's rep was made as much by his size and kills, as it was by the name that preceded him. The name "Joker" instilled fear in no one upon first hearing, which might explain why the man went to great lengths to kill his prey in the most inventive way possible. And, by inventive, Bane meant cruel. In that respect, the guy was no joke, only deadly serious.

"Luthor better have the rest of our money when the job is done," Joker said.

The man was a fool if he thought they would get the balance of what Luthor owed them for this job. Bane knew the score. Luthor was hanging on by his well-manicured nails. The pompous bastard had probably robbed a bunch of old ladies to scrounge together the three hundred grand he'd shelled out to them earlier in the week. They wouldn't be seeing the last two hundred thousand.

That was fine with Bane, not that he liked being shortchanged, but he hated having a job go unfinished. This business with the Wayne woman was one that had stuck hard in his craw these last three years. He, and the fool beside him, had lain low, the way Luthor had asked of them after the woman had survived what Joker had done to her. That, itself, had been a miracle. Today, there would be no more miracles. Diana Wayne and Clark Kent would die.

For Joker's part, he was on this job because he wanted a taste of the prey. For days after he'd shot the woman, all Joker talked about was how he should've "taken her" before putting a bullet in her swollen belly. Now, well, now the degenerate would have his chance to "take her." Bane, as before, would deal with the male. A novelist would prove no match for Bane's size and strength. Depending on his mood, he might even make the man watch Joker have his taste of Diana Wayne before putting the poor bastard out of his misery. _Maybe. Or maybe I'll just cut his balls off and watch him bleed to death. _As isolated as they were, no one would hear their screams. _Even better._

In silent agreement, they got out of the truck. Bane checked his gear one last time – knife, gun, rope. He was good to go.

"You got everything, Joker?"

The man's answering smile showed white and depraved in the dimming sky. By the time they reached the cabin, night would've fully set, creating the best of natural covers. Not that they would need it, still, night time instilled fear in all prey and brought out the inner beast in every predator. Like the man still smiling at Bane, his eyes already dark with blood and other kinds of lust.

One anxious hand ran down the front of Joker's pants, stroking, massaging, and then cupping. "Oh, yeah, wait till she gets a load of me."

* * *

**Metropolis, LexAir**

Feeling more like himself than he has in a long time, Lex relaxed in a supple, brown seat. The jet was pure comfort. The cabin contained four executive chairs and a side-facing fifth seat. The seats had multi-axis that slid, shifted, and locked without the restraint of a track, allowing for optimal legroom. Not that anyone else would be sharing this space with Lex. No, he rode alone, which was the best way to fly. The cabin was more than a simple one, it was a space meant for thinking, working, relaxing, or just quiet contemplation. And Lex desperately need uninterrupted time to plot what he would do once Jordan landed in Virginia, which, according to the pilot, was as far as the fuel they'd found would take Lex, leaving just enough for Jordan's return trip.

"Give me a few minutes to get everything in order then we'll be off, Mr. Luthor."

He nodded. What were a few minutes more when Lex was about to be free? Closing his eyes, Lex leaned his head against the chair, breathed deeply then began calculating his options. Within minutes, he had a list of Maryland, D.C., and Virginia associates who'd owed him a favor or two. He intended to cash in. Then his mind turned to—

"Exactly where she said you would be."

No, it couldn't be, not here, not now. Lex's eyes snapped opened. It was him, no mistaking that deceptively soothing accented voice.

"What did you do to Sally?" For Lex knew Ghul had to have done something to the woman to get her to tell him where to find Lex. The thought of him harming the old woman made Lex's blood boil. And it also explained so much.

Ghul didn't answer, just glared down at Lex with dark, assessing eyes.

"You aren't surprised to see me?"

Actually, he was stunned to see the man, in his own damn jet of all places. No, he was sure the Justice League would've ridded him of his partner. The one time he'd wished for Diana Wayne to have succeeded in her scheming, the woman had failed. But wasn't that just his luck of late?

"Not surprised. Men like you, Ra's, have nine lives."

Sensing the controlled anger rolling off Ghul, cautiously, Lex stood. He was unarmed and wasn't sure if Ghul was as well, although, he knew the older man to be a fighter. Ghul hadn't become the "Demon's Head" for nothing. The man was known to be a vicious fighter. So even if he didn't have a gun or knife on him, Ghul's trained warrior body might just be enough to take Lex down.

But, Lex thought, edging from in front of the leather seat and positioning his body away from Ghul, he wasn't without his own physical skills. If he had to, he would lower himself to that of a pugilist and smash the man's skull in. After all, the greatest of ancient leaders were also warriors, soldiers who'd earned the loyalty and respect of their inferiors by besting other great men and claiming what was there as their own.

This battle, the one he could see brewing in Ghul's eyes, would be no different.

"Because of you, all my plans, all my people, all my family are gone." Husky. Harsh.

"We both made those decisions, Ra's, not just me."

"So, tell me, Luthor, when did we have a discussion about you turning my daughter into your _personal whore_?"

It was fortunate for Lex that he didn't wince and blink from the fury of Luthor's words, for if he had, he wouldn't have seen the shocking glint of silver. Or ducked and rolled when that knife came at his throat.

Quickly, Luthor scrambled to his feet.

Ra's barreled forward, eyes focused and furious.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Luthor defended, pivoting, side-stepping, and jumping. Moving with desperate swiftness, he did anything to keep the infuriated Ghul away from him.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Forearm. Shoulder. Hand.

Not deep but grazing cuts that hurt like a son of a bitch.

Lex dodged another attack, connecting with Ghul's kidney when he circled around and punched the man as hard as he could.

That did nothing to stop him. He came at Lex again, slicing the front of his shirt, catching blue cotton and white flesh.

Ghul lunged once more. Lex dropped to the floor, kicked up and out with a foot, finding knee. The knee buckled. Lex kicked again, harder this time, praying to hear a break.

Nothing.

But the leg gave way, causing Ghul to stagger then fall. The good knee holding him halfway up. That was Lex's opportunity, another kick, not to knee or face but to the exposed space between Ghul's legs. With unrepentant force, Lex's foot contacted with Ghul's cock and balls.

That—_finally_—had the man stopping and cursing Lex in a foreign language. But Ghul still held the knife, his grip sure and strong. His red face contorted in agony.

Lex stood, kicking his former partner in the face as he rose. Ghul fell to his back, the knife still in his hand. And there was still fight left in the man, his eyes radiating pitiless reckoning.

Then Ra's al Ghul began to laugh.

Luthor glared at the lunatic. There was no humor to be found here. Lex was bleeding, the cuts long and painful and the fight not nearly over. Yet the man continued to laugh, belly aching guffaws that was nothing like the poised Ghul Lex knew.

Lex towered over the downed Ghul, aching to stomp the man to death. He knew that to be one method of killing by some gangs, a way of utterly humiliating a man's enemy by killing him with nothing more than dirty shoes, unwilling to taint his hands by touching his worthless opponent.

Lex lifted his foot and slammed it into Ghul's chest, stomach, side, and head repeatedly. On an unstoppable rampage, Lex unleashed brutal force, kicking and stomping.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Crack. Crack. Crack. _Yes, ribs._

It wasn't enough, because the goddamn man was still laughing, taunting Lex even as he lay on the cabin floor, teeth broken, lips cut and bleeding, eyes red and swollen, hair matted with blood.

Frustrated and out-of-control, Lex went to lower his foot again, aiming for Ghul's mocking mouth.

The blade Lex had forgotten about came up, slicing deep into his upper thigh. Digging it in as far as it would go, Ghul twisted and twisted and twisted.

Lex screamed. Fell.

They lay there, panting, unmoving, and in need of medical attention.

It was then, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, Lex realized the jet was airborne. He tried to move, tried to reach down and grab the knife, but it was no good. Then Ghul laughed again, more a labored cough from his broken ribs, but a definite laugh.

"What the hell is so damn funny?"

"Nothing, but we are such predictable fools. I should be dead. I should've died with the others, but I lived. I thought myself lucky, invincible, now I realize they let me live."

Maybe he'd kicked the bastard too many times in the head, because Ghul was making zero sense.

"She wanted us both here, on this plane. That's the only logical explanation."

Ra's al Ghul had lost it. That was Lex's initial thought. His second thought was of being strategically corralled, of acting on survival instinct that was—_of course_—predictable.

Then rage and impotence overtook him when the pilot's voice echoed through the cabin. "Welcome to Air Justice League, gentlemen. I will be your pilot this glorious evening. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight."

* * *

**Lake George Adirondacks, New York**

Bane and Joker hid behind two massive oak trees, the log cabin a couple of hundred feet away. Lights were on in the house but the prey were sitting on the steps, hugged up on each other, unaware they were about to die.

Keeping to the trees and shadows, Bane and Joker worked their way closer to the home. Within minutes, they were only feet from the lovebirds.

The man saw them first. His arm tightened around the woman, who had her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, mouth set in a smile. Then that smile vanished when she opened blue eyes. Blue eyes followed that of her lover's and settled uncomfortably on Bane and Joker.

She sat up, and the fear was there. Through the darkness and reflected off the porch light, Bane could see the Wayne woman's fear. If he got a little closer, he could probably smell the pleasurable aroma of terror on her as well. But he would leave that for Joker. He didn't get off on raping women nor was it his preferred choice of torture. No, he had other methods. Methods, the man glaring at him would soon learn.

Bane and Joker began walking up the path, ignoring when the man and woman rose.

"Who in the hell are you and what do you want?"

Brave words from Clark Kent. He wouldn't be so tough once Bane got his meaty hands on him.

Kent shoved Wayne behind him.

Bane smirked. "We are here to finish a job, Kent. That lady there, the one you think you can protect from us, has lived three years too long. That ends tonight."

Wayne clutched hands to Kent's shoulders. The novelist was tall and well built, which only meant more fun for Bane.

"You won't touch her. I'll see you both dead first. You and your silent partner."

The Joker began to laugh, sadistic and with more than a touch of insanity. "The last time we met, my pet," he said, his eyes and words all for Wayne, "parting was such sweet sorrow. Still, you can't say I didn't show you a good time. But tonight, I promise to make it even better for you."

Bane couldn't see Wayne's reaction because Kent had turned his back on them, shielding her from them with his big body. But Bane did hear Kent ask, "Is it them?" He didn't hear Wayne's response. Perhaps she spoke too low or maybe she nodded, but Kent's next words to her were clear. _"Run, Diana, run!"_

She ran. Fast.

Bane swore.

Joker snarled.

"Go get her, you fool."

Joker went, loping after his prey with an awkward, hungry quickest.

Bane returned his focus to his own prey. He cracked knuckles then strode toward the dead man.

* * *

**Langley, Virginia**

The door to the jet opened and the steps lowered. Letting the woman precede him, they walked up the steps and into the cabin of the jet. On the floor were the men hand delivered to them.

"She said you two might kill each other before I had a chance to get my hands on you."

The woman peered down at the men with haughty disdain, her dark eyes, coco brown skin, and short cropped hair beautiful but the woman herself was anything but. No, she was too cold and calculating to be truly appealing. And she was his new boss.

"I know you." Luthor said, pointing from his spot against a wall, a trail of blood leading from the center of the floor to where he now sat. The blade, he assumed, placed there by the man on the other side of the cabin, face sweaty, breaths labored. "You're Wayne's Head of Security. Or at least you were. She fired you."

Indeed she had, and Talia had obviously run that bit of news back to Luthor. Not surprisingly, that's what spies did.

"But you I don't know."

Steve's boss walked up to then bent to Luthor, close but not touching. She would never do that.

"You can call me Director Waller, Mr. Luthor."

"And what do you want from us, Director Waller?" Ra's al Ghul asked.

Waller smiled, an illusion Ghul and Luthor would eventually learn to hate. For nothing good ever followed that woman's beautifully deceptive grin.

With her index finger, Waller touched the hilt of the blade protruding from Luthor's leg.

The man flinched in pain, and Steve wondered if Waller had sank the knife in deeper. If it could go any deeper.

"All you need to know is that your asses now belong to me and the United States government. If you want to escape the death penalty, once we reach Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary, I suggest you remember one thing." She stood, her hard eyes moving between Luthor and Ghul. "Remember that I am God and if you ever try to escape, ever hurt someone I haven't commanded you to deal with, it will be like committing suicide. Turning on her heels, she headed for the exit. "Welcome to the Suicide Squad, boys, may your stay be painful and short."

Once Steve and Waller were off the plane, two officers went inside. Several minutes later, Steve watched as they dragged an angry and bleeding Luthor and a calm and cunning Ghul off the plane, hands in cuffs. From the look of things, they had actually tried to kill each other.

There was a government plane waiting to take them all to Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, where the new prisoners would be stripped, examined, and given a number and cell. And there they would stay until Director Waller got around to having them interrogated then checked by her psychiatrist. Then, and only then, would she determine their fate, the woman, in her own way, was truly God.

But Steve suspected Luthor and Ghul would not make the cut. They were too stubborn, too proud to be broken by Amanda Waller, though the woman would try, very, very hard. And there would be blood, lots and lots of blood.

Director Waller pierced Steve with her frosty gaze. "I don't like it."

He didn't think she did.

"She called me . . . directly." So Waller had already told him. "She knows you now work for me. She. Knows."

Her distrustful eyes said she thought Steve had been the one to provide Diana with the Intel. He hadn't. Not since she'd learned the truth about him pulling Barda off of the Kent detail, they hadn't spoken.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"I told you when you hired me that Diana Wayne and her board were no fools."

"But what you didn't tell me was that they had enough juice to take down the likes of Luthor, Ghul, and the League of Assassins." Her glare hardened even more. "In two weeks. I've been after Ghul and his men for years, and Diana Wayne does it in two goddamn weeks."

Yeah, she had, and Steve couldn't be more proud of her.

"They're dangerous. _She's_ dangerous. Diana Wayne and the Justice League, we need to keep an eye on them. If they can destroy two mega criminals like Luthor and Ghul, they are people of extreme interest."

Perhaps they were. Yeah, perhaps they were at that. But Steve had betrayed Diana for the last time. If Waller wanted to go after Diana and her League, she would get no help from him. Diana might not love him, but at one time, they had been friends. Steve would always cherish that friendship. And one day, he hoped she would forgive him. Until that time, well, there was Waller to deal with, the Suicide Squad to lead, and super-villains to capture.

* * *

**Lake George Adirondacks, New York**

Clark's heart raced with an anger he'd never known. When he'd first spotted those killers in the driveway, fear had assailed him. Not for himself but for Diana. Then when she'd nodded that the men were indeed the ones who'd killed Bruce and Brina and shot her, protective rage gouged his soul.

Diana had been right. She'd said Luthor would send not only men to kill her, but that he would hire the same assassins. "Poetic justice," she'd said. "The bastard will think it's poetic justice to have the same hit men from before come after me now."

She had been right. And it had taken every ounce of willpower to let Diana go and not to chase after the man who had darted after her. Clark knew, deep in his gut, that the one who now hunted Diana was the same who had shot her three years ago, leaving Diana with physical and mental scars. He'd seen the lust in the man's eyes, and the sight had frightened Clark. When he caught Diana, and Clark knew he would, because he was supposed to, Diana would be more than he remembered. _So much more._

The hulking man had stayed, the same who had probably gone after Bruce, thinking to have Clark experience the same fate. _Not gonna happen, asshole._

The killer advanced, mouth set in a fierce, determined sneer.

At the same time, they reached behind them. Clark ducked while the killer was still pulling something from the back of his waistband. A shot fired, high and wild and missing Clark. When Clark shot.

He didn't miss.

The thin, flexible wires of the Taser landed squarely in the killer's chest.

Down he went, bolts of debilitating electricity shooting through him. The killer writhed in obvious pain.

Kicking the dropped pistol away from the killer's trembling hand, Clark knelt beside him. The fallen killer's body jerked and spasmed, eyes widened and wet from shock and pain. _Serves you right._

Clark smiled then whispered, "Your friend is a deer chasing a lioness. And when she finally stops running, allowing him to catch her, well, he'll be her dinner instead of her being his."

Clark stood, and because the downed man had killed Bruce Wayne and had tried to do the same to him, Clark removed a second Taser from his ankle holster, pointed it at the killer, and gave him a second dose of electrical shocks.

And the writhing and contorting began anew, foaming mouth and screams added.

The front door opened and Sam appeared, gun and handcuffs in hand. If Clark had missed with the Taser, Manny wouldn't have, which was very fortunate for the killer because Manny's weapon was not a nonlethal Taser gun.

"Cuff this sewer rat. I'm going after Diana."

Tucking the guns away, Clark ran in the direction he knew Diana had gone. The route they'd mapped out yesterday with Manny and Sam. And Sam was already out there, waiting, watching. Unless Diana's life was in danger, Sam wouldn't intervene, no more than Clark intended to. This confrontation, this fight was for Diana alone.

She needed this. He understood that now, understood she could never completely move forward without firmly closing the door on this part of her past. And that wild man after her was an indelible part of her past she desperately needed to confront and conquer. Once she did, she would be free.

* * *

Hard footsteps pounded behind Diana, breath heavy as if the man hadn't put forth this much exertion in years. Diana slowed, not too much; she wasn't quite ready for him to catch her yet. The steps got closer, breath winded, labored. But the demon from her nightmares remained, a steady, malignant presence behind her. His deadly intentions evident with each footfall and deep breath he took.

Rounding a giant sentry tree, Diana stopped.

The demon did as well, haunting night air and the tree all that stood between them.

She cowered, hands on the tree, eyes on the thin framed monster ten feet in front of her.

He laughed. "Times up Diana pooh. I've come for my due." He stepped forward.

She didn't move, the tree still separated them. But she did speak. She needed to speak. In her best damsel in distress voice, she said, "You and that other man were the ones who killed Bruce and shot me?" She posed it as a question but knowing the nasty, scarring truth. As soon as the smaller man had spoken, she'd recognized his vile voice. A voice she feared would forever haunt her dreams and her waking mind.

She had known.

Unmistakable.

She had known, and now he would pay for the pain and misery he'd caused. The blood. The deaths. The tears. The fear. _All of it._

Laughter rang from him, an ugly sound of madness as well as brilliance. "I can only claim you and the babe, Diana pooh. Bane did hubby dearest. Between the two of us," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't think Bane's really into the ladies." His disgusting mouth parted and he licked thin lips, eyes trying to see body shielded behind the tree.

"Luthor and Ra's al Ghul hired you and . . . Bane to kill Bruce Wayne?"

"They wanted information, and we were the ones who could get it for them. Now Luthor wants you dead, and we're still the guys who can get it for him. A win-win really." Tongue again swiped over what looked to be painted lips. "He wants you dead and I just want _you_."

"So, you're here to kill me and Clark Kent?"

"Bane's here to kill your lover. I'm here to fuck then kill you. Like I said, a win-win deal." He stepped closer. "Now come on, Diana pooh, stop playing hard to get and come from around that tree before I come after you."

Stepping out from behind the tree, Diana came face-to-face with her daughter's murderer. He was a gaunt man with pale skin and hair dyed a putrid shade of green. All and all, quiet unremarkable, with the exception of eyes that shone bright green with years of depravity.

And she hated him from the pit of her being. Hated his maniacal cackle, the fingers that grabbed her forearm, and the long nose that begged to be broken.

So she did.

Lightning fast, Diana rammed her forehead into the demon's face.

Stumbling back, his hands instinctively went to his shattered nose.

She struck again, spear hand strike to his throat.

Sidekick to his waist.

Shin kick to his knee. _Crack._

Thrust kick to his solar plexus.

The demon went down, still holding his broken and bleeding nose.

Diana went down with him, landing with her knees to his chest. Then she began leveling blow after blow, punch after punch, hitting him with fury, anguish, and loss. So much fury, red hot and choking, she hit him harder. And harder. And harder.

Diana pounded trained, vengeful fists into flesh, bone, and muscle, seeing her daughter's tombstone with no name. No name because she'd been born too soon and died before anyone had a chance to know her. No name until she'd given her one, claimed her daughter the only way she knew how, with love and tears and promises for justice.

Diana patted the monster down, knowing it had to be somewhere on him. Finding it in the waistband of his pants, she yanked it free and pointed it at him. First his face then, moving down with purpose, she shoved the barrel of the gun against the monster's belly button.

The maniacal laughter that haunted her was gone. The monster wasn't so crazy after all. The way he looked from Diana to the gun sticking in his stomach told the truth. Sanity still lived within.

The weapon felt cool, hard, and tempting in her hand. Finger pressed to the trigger, it would only take a twitch and she'd mark the man as surely as he'd marked her. A part of her, the lost, mournful widow and mother cried out for the ultimate vengeance. He deserved it. People like him couldn't be reformed. He was a monster, a demon, and such creatures only knew how to hunt, kill, and destroy.

Hearing familiar steps, Diana glanced up. Clark had arrived. He didn't move, didn't come nearer and try to stop her. No, he only stood there, his face as loving and warm as ever. She knew she had to be an awful sight, hands bruised and bloody, eyes wild and vicious, beaten body of a killer underneath her, gun in hand poised to kill a baby killer, would-be rapist.

Still Clark only watched and waited for Diana to make the decision he trusted her to make. The thought of how much faith he had to have in her, seeing her like this, was humbling. So close to taking a life, a worthless nothing of a life, but a life all the same, but Clark's eyes revealed more than loving words ever could. He didn't have to say, "Don't shoot the bastard, even though he doesn't deserve your mercy." The silent words in his eyes were the ones that most mattered. They said, "I have faith in you. Do what's right."

And she did.

Lifting off the bleeding man, Diana stood, ran a hand under her shirt and pulled out a wire. She tossed it onto the man's chest.

Unmoving, he stared at the wire.

"Everything you said to me was recorded."

She stepped over the man, who would most likely receive a life sentence, if not the death penalty, for his crimes.

The next thing Diana knew, she was in Clark's arms. And when Detective Jones and two Metropolis police officers came running into the woods, she didn't bother looking up. Clark felt too good and she didn't want to see the officers haul the demon away. If she could help it, Diana would never lay eyes on the creature ever again.

Clark kissed the hair at her temple. "It's over, Diana. It's finally over."

It was. She couldn't believe it, but it truly was. _Three years._ Three excruciating years of nightmares, grief, and anger, so much, too much, and now it had come to a brutal but satisfying conclusion. There were loose ends to be tied up, she knew, but Diana wouldn't think of those details now. Not tonight, not even tomorrow, for now, she only wished to bask in the sweet aroma of justice no longer denied.

"What do you want to do now? Go home?"

She shook her head. "We are home."

"I thought you wouldn't want to keep the house. You know, after tonight."

Diana raised her head then a hand to Clark's jaw. She stroked and smiled at him, her love, her future, her Superman with a heart of gold and the soul of a poet. How could he ever think she wouldn't want a gift from him, that she would allow her monsters to mar his sensitive and loving gesture?

She wouldn't.

She couldn't.

This place, this woodsy escape, had turned into her salvation. She would forever remember what she did here this night, what she didn't do, and the woman that had been reborn in the flames of warrior retribution.

Diana kissed his jaw, his lips, soft, gentle pecks of love and gratitude. "I want to go back to our cabin, take a long bubble bath with my handsome fiancée, and fall asleep in a bed made for sex and sin."

Clark squeezed her tightly before turning them both in the direction of the log cabin, Sam already several feet ahead of them. His holstered gun at his waist, a gun, she knew, that had been aimed at the villain's head the moment Diana had stopped by the marked tree, her line in the sand. _End game._

"Sounds perfect. After we give our statements to Detective Jones tomorrow," Clark said, stopping them before they reached the clearing, "I think we should sit down and decide on a date for the wedding. And," he pulled the gold necklace from under her shirt until it hung down the front, "you can wear the engagement ring without fear of damaging it in a fist fight with a crazed killer."

The ten-year old engagement ring hung wonderfully at the end of the gold necklace. A reminder of past mistakes and future hopes, of first loves and recaptured dreams, of endings and beginnings, of Diana Prince and Clark Kent.

Finally.

Forever.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	50. Chapter 49 Magic, Love & Paradise Island

**Chapter 49: Magic, Love, & Paradise Island**

**Four Months Later**

**Los Angeles, California, Paradise Island Resort and Spa**

**December 30****th**

**A Princely Blessing**

The wedding rehearsal had gone as well as could be expected, considering this was the first week the Prince, Wayne, Kent, and El families were together as a blended family unit. All with the combined goal of ensuring that Diana and Clark's wedding week went as smoothly as possible.

None of that, however, took into consideration the couple's extended family – the Currys, the Stewarts, the Queens, and the Graysons. Then, of course, there was Clark's best man, Jimmy Olsen and his ex-wife, Lois Lane.

The Aphrodite Ballroom was full to overflowing with the people Diana most loved in the world. This place, this Paradise Island Ambrose and Hippolyta Prince founded when love and magic flowed between them, outlasted and outgrew its creators. It was bigger than they were. It always had been. A vortex that brought families as well as strangers together to a magical, mythological realm where wishes reigned and dreams lived.

Magic. That was the best word to describe Diana and Clark's first meeting here. Simply magical. Yes, it had been, and they'd wanted to recreate that same thrill, that same moment of wonder when they took that final magical step into a future that held no fear only hope, only love.

So when Ambrose Prince stood and clapped his hands to quiet the room, Diana should not have been surprised. But she was. Her father, dark and handsome, was a most striking man. He was tall, broad of shoulder with salt-and-pepper hair that, when out, fell hallway down his back, but was now pulled back in a neat ponytail. Looking at him, standing while everyone else sat at the dinner tables, Diana could see why her mother had fallen so deeply in love with Ambrose Prince, his twinkling blue eyes alone capable of melting the coldest of glaciers.

Clark, who sat beside her, held Diana's hand under the table. He knew how important it was for Diana, for once, to have both her parents with her. She didn't expect them to become friends or to resolve all that still ached between them, but having them here, for her wedding, not arguing but truly trying to make peace, was a magic all its own. The child Diana had once been now recalled memories of spying on her parents dancing in the living room when they thought themselves alone and Diana asleep. They had danced, laughed, and stared at each other with what adult Diana now knew to be deep love and affection.

She had forgotten.

And, at some point in their marriage, so had they.

Ambrose came from around the table where he sat with Donna, Victor, Lara and Jor El. He faced Diana's table where Clark, Hippolyta, and both Marthas sat. His eyes lifted and stared out at the quiet room.

"As some of you may know, I was not the best of fathers. I'm here, with all of you today, because I have a daughter with a forgiving and loving heart. That has always been Diana's way, what makes her special, precious. Ten years ago, she came to me looking for answers. A woman when I'd last only seen a child. So much, I had missed. So much I had denied myself . . . denied her, and so much for which to repent."

Tears threatened, but Diana held them back. She'd never heard her father speak in such a way, and wouldn't have expected the first time he did so to be a public confession. Diana wanted to see her mother's reaction to Ambrose's words, but she didn't dare glance her way, not if she wanted to keep from bursting into tears.

Then, her father did the unthinkable, he turned to Hippolyta, his eyes stormy with unshed tears, and the deep love and affection Diana had seen so long ago.

"And I was no better of a husband. I should have been. I wanted to be. When I look at Donna and Diana, the amazing women they have become, I know, even with my many mistakes, I chose well the woman who became their mother."

Diana did look to her mother then. Hippolyta sat like a marble statue, her body taut, face unreadable. But her eyes, her eyes never wavered from her ex-husband's.

"Mistakes, shame, and regret can eat away at a man's heart, soul, and pride. And so the one thing I should have done but never did was to apologize. It's not much and far too late, but I'm sorry. In this room, with family and friends, and two days before my eldest daughter's wedding, I humbly extend my deepest apology to my daughters and to the woman I once proudly called my wife – Hippolyta Prince."

Still, her mother did not move, did not speak. But tears began to fall, as they did for Diana, and when Diana looked to her sister, Donna was too crying. Ambrose Prince had stunned them all, and his eyes were no less wet for his announcement.

"While many might argue that a man who failed at love and marriage has nothing of worth to say on the subject, I would contend just the opposite. For in failure wisdom can grow, and with self-reflection so does enlightenment."

Her father walked closer to her table, his eyes now on Diana and Clark.

"On this day, please accept a father's blessing, from a prince to a queen and her king."

Weeping, Diana nodded to her father.

"May your wedding bring you all the exquisite excitement marriage should bring, and may life grant you also patience, tolerance, and understanding. May you always need one another, not so much to fill your emptiness as to help you know your fullness. A mountain needs a valley to be complete; the valley does not make the mountain less, but more; and the valley is more a valley because it has a mountain towering over it."

Clark leaned over and kissed Diana's tear-stained cheek.

"May you need one another, but not out of weakness. May you want one another, but not out of lack. May you entice one another, but not compel one another. May you embrace one another, but not out encircle one another. May you succeed in all important ways with one another, and not fail in the little graces. May you look for things to praise, often say, 'I love you!' and take no notice of the small faults."

Ambrose's voice, strong and sure, reached every ear, every heart, for no one moved; no one spoke, not even the children.

"If you have quarrels that push you apart, may both of you hope to have good sense enough to take the first step back."

Diana looked to Clark and him to her, knowing he was thinking back to their broken engagement and colossal misunderstanding of ten years ago.

"May you enter into the mystery which is the awareness of one another's presence – no more physical than spiritual, warm and near when you are side by side, and warm and near when you are in separate rooms or even distant cities. May you have happiness, and may you find it making one another happy. May you have love, and may you find it loving one another."

By the time Ambrose Prince finished, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.

Diana's heart pounded with love for her father. The man who had abandoned his family as much as he'd abandoned his own heart. He knew, he understood the hole he'd left, and he was here. Finally here, and asking, she knew, to be the father he hadn't been in the past.

Then he was next to Diana, eyes warm, loving, full of regret yet hope.

She stood, and the child she'd been that had once waited for her father to return, jumped into her father's arms, weeping little girl and grown woman's tears. The father-daughter bond reformed, tightened and crushed Diana to Ambrose Prince, a father's redemption, a daughter's absolution.

Magic.

Love.

Paradise.

* * *

**December 31****st **

**Kryptonian Love**

Clark should've been enjoying his bachelor party. He should've been smiling, laughing, and joking with Ollie, John, Arthur, Vic, Jimmy, and Jor. Instead, he'd slipped outside the suite and onto the balcony.

It was quieter out here, and the night air felt cool and good on his face and neck. Hands on the wrought iron rail, Clark tried to steady his heart. It beat far too fast. The wedding was less than twenty-four hours away and he was working himself into a nervous wreck. If he didn't do something, he was likely to pass out at the altar, embarrassing himself and frightening Diana.

"May I join you?"

Clark nodded.

Jor approached. He was a tall man, not as tall as Clark or as widely built, but Jor El's frame was solid and strong, his voice deep with a cultured Kryptonian accent Clark loved to hear. And he was his birth father.

For all that Clark had always wanted to learn about and meet his biological parents, it had been strangely difficult for him to think of Jor and Lara El as his parents in the same way he thought of Martha and Jonathan Kent as his parents. The truth, he'd come to realize, was that they weren't. The Kents had raised him. They were there for Clark when the Els were not . . . could not. This knowledge, Clark knew, pained his parents. In many respects, the Els and Ambrose Prince had much in common, neither there for their young children.

Yet all were striving to recreate a bond that had been severed so very long ago. This pleased Clark, for family was everything to him, as it was for Diana. And their unorthodox family, in spite of hardship and pain, was a mighty one to behold.

"So, tomorrow's the big day."

"Yeah."

"Nervous?"

"Yup."

"I see you're a man of few words tonight."

Clark shrugged, and then thought better of his silent suffering. His parents had been married for over three decades. And from what Clark could see, the Els marriage was a happy one, although, after Clark, they'd had no other children. Still, their love for each other was clear. So Jor had to know much of what made for a long-lasting and happy marriage.

Clark turned to him. "I'm divorced," he began stupidly. "I mean, I did this once before and screwed it up."

Jor considered Clark before he spoke. That was his father's way, Clark had learned. Jor was a man of few words himself, but when he did speak, the words were not sentimental but logical and rational. The sentimentality, Jor left to his wife.

"Marriage, Clark, is a commitment to life, the best that two people can find and bring out in each other. If offers opportunities for sharing and growth that no other relationship can equal. It is a physical and an emotional joining that is promised for a lifetime."

Clark tried to remember what he felt when he married Lois, if he truly viewed their joining as one that would last a lifetime.

"Within the circle of its love, marriage encompasses all of life's important relationships. A wife and a husband are each other's best friend, confidant, lover, teacher, listener, and critic. Do you feel that way about Diana?"

"Of course I do."

Jor nodded. "Of course you do. What I've learned being married so long to your mother is that marriage deepens and enriches every facet of life. Happiness is fuller, memories are fresher, commitment is stronger, even anger is felt more strongly, and passes away more quickly."

Clark's runaway heart was beginning to slow, his father's words sinking in and calming him. He already felt all those emotions for Diana, different and stronger than he had during his marriage to Lois.

"Marriage understands and forgives the mistakes life is unable to avoid. It encourages and nurtures new life, new experiences, and new ways of expressing a love that is deeper than life. You and Diana have already been through so much, Clark, more than what some married couples has experienced. Yet you've survived, and you're here, ready to move forward together."

Clark was ready. He was so ready to finally take Diana as his wife, to begin their new life with the birth of the New Year.

"This is what I know, when two people pledge their love and care for each other in marriage, they create a spirit unique unto themselves which binds them closer than any spoken or written words. Marriage is a promise, a potential made in the hearts of two people who love each other and takes a lifetime to fulfill."

Jor raised a hand and placed it on Clark's shoulder. "All of that is only possible, son, if you've chosen wisely, chosen well. I won't ask you if you have because such a question would be both insulting and pointless. So set aside those irrational nerves of yours, son, and enjoy this evening of brotherhood. For come tomorrow, you will take a wife and bless me with a daughter. That is the Kryptonian way of things."

In a surprising show of emotion, Jor hugged Clark, only their second since reuniting. Clark returned the embrace, the last embers of doubt and fear obliterated. "To everyone else you will always be Clark Kent, but to me and Lara, you'll forever be our little Kal El, the boy we gave up so he could grow and be free. I love you, Kal. We love you. Always have. Always will. Like Diana, you complete our circle of love."

"Thank you. I love you, too, Dad."

A first for Clark and Jor, Jonathan Kent would always be "Pa," but Jor had earned the right to be called "Dad."

There was nothing else to say, nothing else to do but return to the party. Yet Clark didn't let go. And, this time, neither did his father. A sign, if Clark ever saw one, of the permanence of family and the magic of Paradise Island.

* * *

**January 1****st**

**The Fog of Love**

Diana resided in a lovely, magnificent fog. In this fog time slowed and people disappeared. All she could hear, all she could see was but one other – Clark Kent, her groom.

She should have recalled something of the last hour – getting dressed, laughing and crying with her bridesmaids, being kissed by her mothers, walking down the aisle flanked by her parents, seeing Clark next to the minister, so handsome in his black tuxedo. Diana should have remembered more, this was, after all, her wedding day.

But her mind had joined her heart in wondrous, stupefied bliss the moment she stood across from Clark and the minister began speaking.

"We are gathered here today to take part in the most time-honored celebration of the human family, uniting a woman and a man in marriage. Diana and Clark have come to witness before us, telling of their love for each other. We remember theirs is a love whose source is the affection of those who loved them into being.

We remind them that they are performing an act of complete faith, each in the other; that the heart of their marriage will be the relationship they create. In a world where faith often falls short of expectation, it is a tribute to these two who now join hands and hearts in perfect faith."

Clark's eyes were of the deepest blue and they stared intently at her, his lips in a perpetual grin. Diana so wanted to kiss those lips, to feel their softness and their wickedness against her mouth, her throat . . . and lower. His twinkling eyes said he knew the path her mind had just taken.

She blushed.

The minister turned to Clark. "Clark, will you receive Diana as your wife? Will you pledge to her your love, faith and tenderness, cherishing her with a husband's loyalty and devotion?"

His heart in his eyes, Clark first nodded to Diana, and then said loud for all to hear, "I will."

The minister then faced Diana, but her attention was all for Clark and the vow he'd just pledged. And those tempting lips of his wouldn't stop smiling at her, taunting Diana with their lushness, and how long it had been since she'd last drank of them. _Too long._

"Diana, will you receive Clark as your husband? Will you pledge to him your love, faith and tenderness, cherishing him with a wife's loyalty and devotion?"

Diana would always remember this as the moment she gave her sister fodder for years of merciless ribbing. Because, it was then, with no thought to the minister's words or the people gathered for the wedding, Diana mindlessly went to Clark, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him into a most wanton kiss.

And—_oh yes_—Clark kissed her back. His lips were as soft and sweet as she knew they would be. She drank deeply and long, delving into his mouth and tasting and tasting and tasting. Then she heard it, the whistling and cheering. She broke off the kiss, quite mortified when she realized the fog had only been in her mind, the wedding audience quiet real, she and Clark not yet married and alone in their bedchamber.

Embarrassed, Diana stepped back and said the two words she should've a minute ago. "I will." She hoped those were the correct words because she'd quite forgotten the minister's question.

Seeming un-phased by the interruption, the minister smiled indulgently and continued. "Clark and Diana receive each other from your fathers and mothers, who give you into each other's keeping, by saying now, each to the other, words which will tell of your love."

The minister gazed out at their family and friends. "Clark and Diana have scribed their own vows. They will recite them now."

Clark grasped Diana's hands, his masculine and trembling with the same flutters assailing Diana, making him utterly, deliciously cute. So adorable Diana had to will her feet not to move and kiss him again. That just wouldn't do a second time around.

He twined their fingers, Clark's thumb gliding over her engagement ring. The ring he'd kept for ten years. The ring she'd wanted back the moment she'd taken it off her finger and thrown it at him in a fit of fury and pain. The ring that was so much a symbol of where they'd been, how far they'd come, and where they wanted to go.

Together.

"I take you Diana, to be my loving wife. I will always be thankful for you for coming into my life. You know my past and you're aware of what I've been through, just as I have shared in the knowledge of your past and understand the events that have shaped you. I will forever be thankful for your unique love and affection, as it is truly like no other I have known before.

Though at times we differ in views, tradition, outlook, and opinion, I promise to always keep an open line for communication; to allow my pride to take a backseat, to meet you halfway, to compromise or, if really needed, graciously come to terms and agree to disagree.

I will always remain faithful to you and this marriage; never needing any love other than your wonderful love, never wanting any touch other than your loving touch, and never having any woman other than the one I'm holding hands with this very moment. Your warm, ocean blue eyes and loving smile will stay with me every minute we are apart for the rest of our lives.

I will not only be your Superman and you my Wonder Woman, but your best friend, most loyal servant, and biggest champion.

Diana, on this first day of the New Year, I promise not just new beginnings but a happy, secure, and indomitable marriage."

Clark leaned in and whispered against her ear, "It's quite mushy….sorry about that."

Diana's heart swelled. Tears fell.

She had vows of her own, although she doubted what she'd penned could compare to Clark's.

She began on a whisper, thinking of and only speaking to Clark, belatedly remembering, again, the audience. Diana restarted, speaking louder, wanting everyone in the small chapel to know of her love for this man.

"Clark, I take you be to be my husband, my eternal mate. You are my inspiration and my soul's fire. You are the magic of my days. You help me laugh; you teach me love. You provide a safe place for me, unlike I've ever known. You free me to sing my own song. You are more of an amazement to me each day I rediscover you. You are my greatest boon. I am yours. You are mine. Of this, we are certain. You are lodged in my heart. The small key is lost. You must stay there forever."

Their hands tightened, knowing they would never let each other go again.

"Will you now give and receive a ring?" the minister asked.

"We will," they said in unison.

"This circlet of precious metal is justly regarded as a fitting emblem of the purity and perpetuity of the Marriage State. The ancients were reminded by the circle of eternity, as it is so fashioned as to have neither beginning nor end; while gold is so incorruptible that it cannot be tarnished by use or time. So may the union, at this time solemnized, be incorruptible in its purity and more lasting than time itself."

The minister reached down and retrieved a ring from the pillow held by C.J.

The small child beamed up at his father with pride and happiness.

The minister handed the ring to Clark who, despite his trembling hands, managed to place it on Diana's finger.

"Wear this ring forever, Diana, as a symbol of love and peace and of all that is unending."

The minister picked up the second ring and handed it to Diana. Like Clark, Diana stilled her hands long enough to put the ring on her groom's finger.

"Wear this ring forever, Clark, as a symbol of love and peace and of all that is unending."

The minister nodded approvingly, and then looked from them and out to the sea of loving, smiling faces.

"We speak to Clark and Diana of love, in which the trust and freedom of the other person becomes as significant as the trust and freedom of one's self. We speak to them of generosity, which gathers the beauty of earth for riches, and the kindness which turns away the wrath of foolish men and women. We speak of each of our hopes for their continued growth through patience, one for the other. We speak of our confidence that new levels of understanding, discovered by them in experiences of sorrow and tribulation, shall bring ever new surprises of strength and fortitude they do not now know.

In the years which shall bring Clark and Diana into greater age and wisdom, we pray that their love shall be ever young; that they shall be able always to recover from moments of despair, the lithesome ways of buoyant youth. In this hope may they keep the vows made on this day, in freedom, teaching each other who they are, what they yet shall be, enabling them to know that in the fullness of being, they are more than themselves and more than each other; that they are all of us, and that together we share joyously the fruits of life.

Inasmuch as Clark and Diana have declared their love and devotion to each other before family and friends, I now greet them with you as husband and wife.

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be sanctuary to the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there is no isolation for you. Now there is no more loneliness. Now you are two, but there is only one life in front of you. Go now and enter into the days of your togetherness."

Back came the fog, rolling in and blanketing all in Diana's vision. Dense and dark, the fog carried her forward, held her in its fathomless binds and pulled her under.

Sinking.

Sinking.

Sinking.

She was sinking, falling into the most welcoming of abysses. An abyss where love, hope, faith, and Clark Kent lived. An abyss that claimed her breath and mouth, leaving her gasping for air and crying jubilant tears at the edge of wonder and certainty.

Certainty in this new life she'd chosen, and the man kissing her senseless, drowning Diana with his love while having already saved her with his unforgettable spirit.

When Clark's mouth lifted from Diana's, leading her out of the blissful fog and into their joined lives, the magic remained.

Love endured.

It always would.

**NEXT: EPILOGUE**


	51. Chapter 50: Epilogue

**Chapter 50: Epilogue  
**

**Los Angeles, California, Paradise Island Resort and Spa**

**Hera Bridal Suite  
**

Diana stared down at her new wedding ring. The piece was lovely – a rose gold band with a row of sparkling round-cut diamonds. Expensive, just like the Lake George log home Clark had purchased. In some respects, her husband was still that Smallville farm boy who longed to buy his girl the best he could afford, proving to her and himself that he was good enough to be with, good enough to love.

Such feelings of inadequacy weren't easy to overcome fully. This Diana knew with far too much personal knowledge. For Diana was no longer the sweet innocent devoid of darkness as she'd been when Clark had first proposed. With the murder of Bruce and Brina, Diana had discovered a chillier, scarier side of herself. A slumbering beast that, once awakened, was capable of wrath, vengeance. That truth, that awareness of self, both frightened and cautioned her. While she did not cross the line at Lake George, it had been a near thing.

Diana knew, with all that she was, if Clark hadn't reawakened her to love and warmth and happiness, Diana would've unrepentantly taken the life of the man who'd killed her Brina. Because, she'd learned, a heart too hot was no better than a soul too cold. Both put one out of balance, opening up possibilities for actions never before considered, like suicide and murder.

These weren't the best of thoughts on her wedding night, but they were her reality, horrible truths that had led her to this place in time with Clark Kent, one journey that inevitably led to another. Now Diana and Clark were on a shared journey, a mutual path that could lead them anywhere, but a path that would never take them away from each other. _Never that, never again._

She heard him when he exited the bathroom, but she didn't turn. As much as she'd dreamed of this moment, this night, Diana wanted to savior every second. But she knew she wouldn't. She knew, god she knew, once she looked upon her new husband, she would lose all her self-control. She'd barely made it through the reception. All the smiling, picture taking, dancing, and well wishing nearly undid her.

But now they were alone in the bridal suite, alone in a way they hadn't been in a month. Too much to do and not nearly enough time, Clark and Diana had seen precious little of each other - finishing the Thomas Wayne biography, house hunting, moving Martha Wayne to Los Angeles. Then, once arriving at the resort, their respective friends and family had never left their side, leaving no opportunity for quality time together before the wedding. Which, from Diana's sex-deprived perspective, should not be held against her for the publically brazen kiss she'd given Clark during the service.

"How long are you going to stand out there star gazing before you come inside and allow your husband to have his wicked way with you, Mrs. Kent?"

His words went straight to Diana's heart . . . and much, much lower. _Mrs. Kent._ She was at that, a dream reclaimed, a blessing granted.

Diana turned away from the darkness of the night, having already turned away from her inner darkness and joined her—_yes_—new husband in the bedchamber.

The room was opulent, with vaulted ceilings, oil paintings of the goddess Hera in all her naked glory, a peacock cape her only adornment. The dimmed crystal chandelier sparkled beatifically over the gold framed bed with white covers, pillows, and pearl white headboard cushion. A white silk tapestry hung on the wall above the bed, from a gold crown of Olympus, flowing down and to the side in sensual silk waves.

As magnificent as the room and the bed were, Clark Kent surpassed both. Diana wondered if any man had looked more gorgeous on his wedding night, for her husband was a visual feast to her ravenous eyes. And if she didn't want to see him in that splendid bed so badly, preferably under her, Diana just might have swooned right at his feet. With the way he was smiling at her, dimpled chin and knowing eyes, she just might.

And, _damn_, Clark wore the little gift she'd slipped into his overnight bag. _A gift for me, just like the red negligee I'm wearing is a gift for him. _She stared, mouth agape at a thickly muscular nearly nude Clark with a pair of red men's bikini underwear with a black waistband connected to a simple pouch that held his very impressive, very hard, very long reason why neither of them would be getting any sleep tonight.

"Like what you see?"

Diana closed her eyes. God, she had been eye groping him, completely entranced and now undeniably wet. What would she do when she gave him the other bikini's she'd brought him, particularly the low-rise black pair with cutaway details on the pouch? _Yum. _The thought alone of how delicious he'd look in them sent shivers down Diana's spine and her legs moving towards Clark.

"Hell yes, I like what I see," she said, before crushing her mouth to his. "I like it very much."

"So I noticed." He grabbed her bottom, lifted so that she pressed against that red, cotton covered bulging pouch of his. "Oh, yeah, I like it, too, baby."

Ah, so did Diana, so very much. And he was moving against her, making sure she felt every inch of his encased manhood. The silk of her panties were but a thin barrier to the friction and heat riding her.

Lifting her more, Clark carried Diana to the bed, gently lowering her onto the firm mattress. The embroidered coverlet grazed her body each time she shifted, her flushed skin sensitive to the slightest sensation. So sensitive, just the way Clark made her.

With languorous hands, Clark removed her panties and negligee, fingers skimming, mouth kissing, tongue tasting. Neck. Collarbone. Breasts. Stomach.

Moving to the side, Clark's knees next to her hip, he ran a single, steady finger from her belly button to the nubbin peeking out and pleading for his attention. He gave it, a soft back and forth slide of the pad of an index finger.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Diana moaned, raised her hips, and opened her legs wider. Clark wouldn't enter her now though, she knew. No, he would first torture her with fingers, lips, and tongue. Make her flow for him in every way imaginable, as many times as possible before he claimed her, consummating their marriage, their union.

Mouth lowered, he began to suck, paying gentle but relentless attention to her clit. Firm mouth, wet tongue, engorged clitoris, Diana was bursting from erotic sensation. She shook, hips and thighs and quivering, aching sex lengthening and moistening, preparing her body to receive its mate.

Hand went to Clark's thick hair, grasped, held, and then sank deep with nails when he took his own fingers to her. He opened, explored, and found those sensitive ridges just a few inches inside and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed. Her scream melded with the wet sounds of his mouth devouring her from the outside in.

When he moved between her raised legs, his tongue buried deep in her sex, his fingers quickly moving back and forth over her pulsating mound, ripping scream after orgasmic scream from her, Diana barely noticed. Shockwaves of pleasure detonated within, spiraling out of control and holding Diana prisoner. So was Clark, he refused to release her. His mouth, his hands, his tongue—_good god_—were phenomenal.

And Diana couldn't stop the undulating of her hips, lifting off the bed and meeting Clark's ever-thrusting tongue, riding the glorious wave until it finally crashed against the rocks, exploding in a final body arching, mind staggering shards of carnal delight.

When Diana opened her eyes, it was to a husband with lust rimmed orbs and sex-moistened lips. And he was at her entrance . . . without a condom.

Diana glanced to the nightstand where she'd placed a box of condoms when Clark had gone into the bathroom to change and shower. It was still there, unopened. She looked back at Clark, who stared down at her, clearly no intention of sheathing.

"We can't."

"Yes, we can."

God, she thought he understood. Even if Diana could conceive, their baby might not survive. She shook her head, ignoring the voice of hope that asked, "What if it does survive?"

"This is the Hera suite, Diana. I may not know much about Greek mythology, but I know enough to know that Hera is the goddess of marriage and birth."

Kneeling between her parted thighs, Clark began stroking the head of his penis, _ahh_, against her wet, hungry opening. _God, the man does not play fair._

"Before birth, my sexy wife, comes conception." More stroking, more teasing, more taunting Diana with his hard, naked erection, pressing his point and all her buttons.

"We are in this room for a reason. I have faith we can make a child this night." He entered her, the rigid tip and nothing more. "I have faith you're strong enough to carry our child to term, bring her or him into this world safely." Another inch, then withdrawal.

Diana whimpered. She wanted Clark, skin-to-skin, flesh to flesh, no latex barrier. But she was afraid, afraid to hope, to want, and not to receive. Afraid that good fortune would not continue to shine down upon her, granting Diana a child to love and hold dear. A flesh and bone symbol and manifestation of the love and bond of a wife and her husband.

He pressed into her again, deeper this time. Holding himself up on bulky arms, Clark began rocking, a slow in and out rhythm.

Diana didn't resist. How could she? He was giving her what she was too afraid to ask for, too afraid to want, too afraid to deny.

So she stopped denying.

Clark must've seen the decision in her eyes, or maybe it was the smile on her face. Whatever it was, Clark went deeper, embedding the whole of himself into the whole of her, filling Diana completely.

He lowered himself to her, his massive body hard and gloriously wonderful. "I've read the missionary position is the best sex position for conception." Hands going under her hips, he lifted her to meet his thrusts. "This deep, direct penetration will make it easier for my little swimmers to find those eggs of yours."

He lifted her higher, each superb thrust sliding against her hypersensitive clitoris. Clark knew exactly what he was doing – destroying Diana's brain cells and will to do anything other than his sexual bidding.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Then there was no more thinking, not even about babies. A child would come or it wouldn't. Not every marriage received such a blessing, and, as Clark had said, there was always adoption.

But, in the event a child was in the cards for Diana and Clark, the newlyweds provided many an opportunity, that night and many afterwards, for Clark's little swimmers to find Diana's eggs and claim one for the Kent family.

* * *

**One Year Later**

**Lake George Adirondacks, New York  
**

Clark watched his wife, her face glistening from sweat, pale from worry and stress, eyes closed but not resting. He'd done all he could to calm her, to reassure her that all would be well. But, at some point, she'd simply shut down.

It was no good. She couldn't go on like this. Her doctor had told Diana exactly that when she'd last taken Diana's blood pressure, which, not surprising, was way too high. It needed to come down. But that wouldn't happen until Diana let go of the fear making her sick and threatening the precious cargo she carried.

Clark sighed then went to his wife, sitting beside her on their bed. Dipping a washcloth into the basin of cool water on the nightstand, Clark squeezed the excess water from the cloth before wiping the perspiration from his wife's face.

This pregnancy had been a difficult one for Diana, though she never complained. By the second trimester, it was clear Diana could not continue to work or engage in any stressful activities. That also included many physical activities, but—thankfully—not sexual intercourse. That little prohibition came later when Diana entered her eighth month and her OBGYN put her on total bed rest.

Even then, Diana maintained a positive attitude, determined to do whatever she could to stay healthy. Now, however, when she was so close to delivering, something had switched off inside Diana, sapping her of the strength and will that was so much the Diana Kent trademark.

Clark looked to the blue, inflatable birthing pool in the center of the room. It had twenty inches of water, the recommended amount to provide buoyancy for a mother in labor. He wore trunks, Diana's water had broken three hours ago and she was nearly fully dilated. She should be in that pool of water now, not inwardly crying on their bed.

He held her, unable to truly comprehend her fear. Early on in her pregnancy, Diana had admitted she couldn't give birth in a hospital, especially the one in Gotham where Brina had died. He'd suggested the best hospital in Metropolis, but that suggestion did nothing to abate Diana's fears. So they'd opted for a natural home birth with an experienced midwife and Diana's OBGYN on standby.

She stiffened in his arms, and he could feel the breath leave her lungs as another contraction swept through her. It was longer this time, signaling Diana had precious few minutes before Clark would have no choice but to pick her up and put her in that pool. But she needed to get her blood pressure down, that was a danger they couldn't afford.

A soft knock then a, "May we come in?" followed. Hippolyta. Clark sighed with relief. She'd made it in time.

Unwilling to leave his wife's side, Clark bade his mother-in-law to enter. She did, bringing the other three mothers with her. After the wedding, Lara and Jor had decided to return to the States. That had pleased Clark. Now, for the first time ever, he could see his parents daily, since they now lived only twenty miles from Diana and Clark.

The women smiled at him but their concerned gazes quickly settled on Diana's shivering form.

"Come here, Kal," Lara said. With reluctance, he moved to her and away from his wife. She took his hand, lifted on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. "Your father and the others are downstairs. Donna is beside herself and Victor is trying to calm her. She wants to be in here with Diana but the midwife has already told us we have only a few minutes before she's throwing everyone out." She patted his hand, so similar to how Martha soothed him when he was upset.

"I'm glad you all are here, Mom."

"Of course, sweetie, where else would we be?"

Clark smiled down at his mother, so beautiful with her raven hair and subtle streaks of gray. Then his gaze shifted to his wife and the women surrounding her. Hippolyta had taken the spot he'd vacated while Martha Wayne sat on the other side of Diana, and his mother stood, her hand in Diana's.

His smile grew and tears threatened when Clark heard Hippolyta sing the same lullaby he'd heard Diana sing time and again to C.J. and during her pregnancy.

Diana pillowed her head against her mother's chest and began to weep. Martha Wayne stroked hair pulled away from face and whispered words Clark could not hear. The only words he managed to make out were the last ones of, "Brina will always be with you, dear. Don't be afraid to give life to the next generation. She knows you love her, that you have enough love for all your children."

Diana's hand tightened in Martha's as she supported her daughter-in-law through a fierce contraction.

The three mothers and one daughter stayed like that for long minutes, Diana slowly calming.

Lara patted his hand again. "See, Kal, all will be fine. Sometimes a mother's touch is all that is required. Our Diana will be fine. She's strong; she just needed to be reminded how strong."

Clark was grateful to their mothers, they too, like Diana, were infinitely strong, infinitely wise.

So, ten minutes later when he lifted his wife from their bed, carried her to the birthing pool, and helped her inside, Clark wasn't surprised to see renewed fortitude staring back at him. No matter the age, a daughter would always need her mother. Or, in Diana's case, her mother's – a four-sided blessing.

"Are you ready?" the midwife asked of them.

They nodded. This birth would happen with Clark's assistance. The midwife was there, but she would help him with the delivery. This, too, Diana and he, had agreed. Frightening, to be sure, but the most important, awe-inspiring request ever asked of him. If Diana could face her fears, so could Clark.

As always, they would work together, the best team of two.

An hour later, he was a father. Again. And the experience was indescribable. Tears were involved, more his than Diana's.

No, Diana only seemed to be able to stare and whisper endless words of love and prayer.

After another hour, the midwife and Clark had Diana cleaned and back in bed, her eyes droopy from exhaustion but also tear glistened from happiness.

"We did it. You did it, Diana. We're parents."

She smiled her watery smile. "We are. I was afraid to believe, to hope."

Clark kissed her forehead, her nose. "I know. To be honest, for a while there, I was afraid myself. Then I saw the head, the shoulders, and the rest came out." Diana wiped the fresh tear that had fallen. "Miracle."

"Miracles," she corrected.

He laughed. "Yes, miracles."

Clark looked at the miracles his wife held in her protective arms. They were so small. Clark had forgotten how small newborns could be. C.J., of course, had been just as small, his jet-black hair what Clark remembered most about his son's birth.

But these two, well, they were a different kind of gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that gave a father heart palpitations thinking about raising daughters as striking as their mother.

_Daughters, god help me. _

Relieving Diana of one of their miracle babies, swathed in a white-and-pink blanket with the words, "Daddy's Girl," written on it, Clark held his child. Like her sister, she slept, though Clark knew the peace and quiet wouldn't last for long. Not simply because the newborns would soon have to be breastfed, but that—

The bedroom door swung open and in came the horde of family who were no longer patiently waiting to see the babies. _Yup, right on time._

They swarmed the bed, eyes wide and wet, Jor, Arthur, Ollie, John, and Victor included. The women cooed and Diana, bless her tired soul, smiled graciously at her rambunctious family.

But it had to be Donna, his sister-in-law to say, "I can't believe the two of you created babies who are—"

"_Blonde!"_ Hippolyta squealed, clasping her hands to her breast, her face alight with grandmotherly pride. "Finally, the reign of brunettes have come to an end."

Everyone laughed.

The babies cried.

Soon, however, with Hippolyta taking one and his mother the other, the girls quickly quieted.

"So, Clark and Diana, don't leave us in suspense," Dinah said, "What are we to call these blonde bombshells?" She winked at Clark, and he made a mental note to limit visits to Aunt Dinah's house when his daughters became teenagers.

Clark kissed his wife's hand and allowed her to answer.

She looked toward the baby Hippolyta held. "Please meet Catherine Martha Lara Kent. She is the older of the two by a full three minutes, giving her Daddy just enough time to ready himself for her sister's arrival." Her eyes traveled to the bundle his mother held. "And this little one is Daphne Amber Elena Kent."

"Sisters," a little voice chimed in. "I have three sisters." The crowd parted and permitted C.J. to approach Clark and Diana. Climbing onto the bed and beside Diana, he looked from one baby to the other then down to Diana. "I was hoping for a baby brother." He sighed with clear dramatics. "Maybe next time, Mommy Diana, you'll give me two brothers. That way, we'll match, boys to girls."

No one blinked when C.J. spoke of three sisters instead of two. By now, they all understood that C.J. and Diana had a bond to Brina Wayne that no one else had or completely understood. But it wasn't for anyone else to understand, not even Clark. It was what it was.

Diana pulled C.J. to her, her hand automatically going to the boy's unruly hair and stroking. "I think, my special C.J., you are all the son I'll ever need."

And Clark hoped the boy would be content with that, because Clark and Diana knew there would be no more miracle pregnancies for them. This was it; they'd decided the night Diana had nearly miscarried. When the bleeding and cramping started and Clark had to rush his wife to the hospital, for the first time he understood all that Diana had lost when Brina and Bruce were taken from her.

He wouldn't put either one of them through that again. The twins and C.J. were more than enough for Clark Kent.

Daphne started crying and Catherine swiftly followed. They were hungry.

The crowd filed out and Hippolyta and Martha reluctantly handed their granddaughters to Clark and Diana.

Once Catherine and Daphne were fed and asleep, Clark placed them in the bassinettes specially made in Greece, a gift from Ambrose Prince.

Clark dimmed the ceiling light then slipped into bed with his wife. Diana was nearly asleep, but, like always, she moved to his side, half her body on his. The perfect spot, she'd once told him, for finding peaceful sleep.

He held her close. "Thank you," he whispered in her hair. "Thank you for our girls."

She raised her head, a smile playing across her kissable lips. "I should be the one thanking you. You do know what Wally calls you, don't you, Clark?"

He did know.

"Supersperm," she laughed.

"He's not funny."

"He is a little funny. And, I must admit, there has to be something super about you. After all, we have two beautiful daughters when my doctor didn't think I would have even one." Diana settled back against him. "I'd call that pretty super."

Well hell, when put like that . . .

"So, Wally West is officially a member of the Justice League?"

"Yes, him, Dick, Barbara, Hal, and John Jones."

"I can't believe you convinced Detective Jones to join the League."

"He agreed under the condition that I 'stop handling' him."

Clark kissed Diana's mouth when she again lifted her head.

"Oh, so I guess he has yet to figure out that you were the reason he was assigned to my stabbing case."

"Well, no, I don't think he's ready to know that just yet."

"Still handling, my love."

She nodded. "Just a little. He's an excellent detective, and I needed a Metropolis counterpart to Dick in Gotham." Diana placed a sweet kiss to his bare chest. "I think I could sleep for a week, Clark."

He looked over at his slumbering girls.

"How about a few hours. I don't think the babies will give you more than that."

Her tired sigh was a happy one. "I love you, Clark Kent. And C.J. And our blonde twins who my mother will spoil unrepentantly."

Clark settled them deep under the covers, his own weariness beginning to catch up with him.

"And I love you Diana Kent. And our son and the precious daughters you've given me." He lifted his wife's chin, wanting to see her eyes when he told her, "While I have never seen her, I also love Brina Hippolyta Wayne, because she is a part of you, your first daughter, and she will never be forgotten."

Diana's eyes filled with tears, but there was no sorrow there, just a mother's contented acceptance.

Diana's head returned to his chest, her hand over the heart that would forever beat for the girl who'd stolen his heart with a single, bashful look when Clark and Diana were far too young to know that sometimes happily-ever-after came with a price tag but no expiration date. They'd paid the cost and now they were together.

A family.

A League.

A priceless future.

**THE END**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Whew. That was a long in coming conclusion to a story that was never intended to be as lengthy as it turned out. Somewhere along the line, it grew, morphing into a larger, more complex story that needed to be told. So, I obliged and followed the stream of consciousness to the inevitable end. It was an interesting ride, and one I'm pleased you took with me. Thank you for that. I appreciate the time and effort, you, the reader, committed to the story. I most humbly extend my thanks to those of you who granted me moral support and energetic fervor through the gifting of comments. Each one, even when I wrote something you didn't quite like or agreed with, let me know that, on some level, I'd captured and held your interest, which, for a writer, is a very good thing. So, thank you.


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